Dark Star: Book 1
by Onyx
Summary: This is an AU story featuring Piccolo. What if the creatures that Daimao created in Dragonball were actual Namekseijinn? How would the world have changed? Or would it have been so different, after all? note it's finally finished!
1. In which the world turns upside down

Disclaimer: I own none of the cannon DBZ characters, although I do lay claim to the personalities of my originals. I am using the DBZ cast without permission from their original creator for nonprofit purposes. (Wow, an actual disclaimer…I'm proud of myself ^^)  
  
Author's Notes  
  
Yeah, I know, most of you will see this section, cringe, and hit the back button – but I promise that the rest of the chapter is actual story, and these notes aren't very long. If you hate author's notes, then you can simply scroll down, and I won't think any less of you for it. However, some might like a bit of background info on this story before they dive into it, so…here goes.  
  
Dark Star has been my pet project for the past four years. In this story, I explore a question: what if Piccolo's brothers from the original Dragonball had been true Namekseijinn instead of the twisted creatures which they actually were? Naturally, there are many different ways that such a story could go – and not everyone might agree with the outcome that I chose. That's all right with me; no, really, it is. I don't mind a little dissention – I'd even say that you could burn me in effigy if you knew what I looked like. All that I really ask is for you to be civil. Also, if you have any questions (or if you just want to talk) feel free to email me.  
  
Last but not least, I'd like to thank each and every person who encouraged me to write this story. You know who you are, and you deserve a great deal of credit…I'm afraid to list you, because I might forget someone, but thank you all just the same. But I do need to give especial thanks to Bucky, J^2, Juunigou, and Velasa for helping me with the proofing.  
  
And now, with no further ado, the fic.  
  
* * *  
  
It was over. All of it – two years of fighting, three years of training, and the single most taxing battle of his life. Over. Finally.  
  
Goku stood shakily, his tail stretching awkwardly behind him for balance. His nose crinkled in a small grimace – he could still taste the senzou that he had just eaten. Much as he'd needed it, the bean had tasted like something Bulma might have cooked.  
  
The warrior ran a hand absently through his dust-coated raven hair, shaking some of the dirt out of it. Only then did he take stock of his surroundings with wide, surprised eyes. Wow. We sure made a mess. Broken tiles lay scattered about him like the petals of a dying rose, near-empty bleachers enfolded his field of view, interrupted by the occasional hole. The place reminded him of Swiss cheese, but burnt. Goku took a deep breath. The scent of half a dozen different things, all of them scorched, led him to resolve not to breathe in through his nose anymore.  
  
Someone was calling his name. He couldn't tell right away where the sound was coming from since the pitifully empty arena was bouncing the voice around with all the gusto of a top-ranked volleyball team. With some effort, he found the source of the calls. Chichi was leaning over the railing and waving at him as if from the bow of a departing ship. Her sidelocks completed the image, dancing about her face like an ebony breeze. Any other man probably would have gone tearing across the arena to embrace his newly discovered fiancé, but Son was not any other man. He simply grinned and waved back.  
  
He was still waving, in fact, when he saw the trench. This trench was little more than a tear in the marble floor, a superficial ditch that extended into the dirt encircling the fighting arena. It was not very deep, nor was it impressive in any other way…unless one considered the fact that someone had plowed such a gash in the earth with his shoulder. The only other reason that the gouge in the pearl-white tile of the Budokai floor stood apart from the rest of the destruction was because the center of it was highlighted by a streak of true indigo, and the end was marked by a crumpled heap of swirled green and purple. Son wondered if it was still alive – he hoped not. He didn't want to have to kill it.  
  
No, he thought sternly. Don't cheat. There's no thing in that crater – it's not an it, it's a he.   
  
"Goku, he isn't dead." The voice came from directly beside him. Goku went vertical. He landed, panting as if he had just run wind sprints, and rounded on Kami-sama with good-natured indignation sparkling in his eyes.  
  
"Geesh, Kami, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he asked, putting one hand behind his head and the other over his heart for emphasis.  
  
Earth's ancient protector smiled indulgently, but Goku could tell that the expression was forced by the way Kami's fists were clenched at his sides. "No, I'm trying to get you to tie up your loose ends."  
  
The man could feel his natural cheerfulness slipping away as he realized what Kami was speaking of. "Won't you die if I kill him?" he asked, his mannerism more that of a forlorn little boy than the savior of a planet.  
  
Kami lowered his eyes briefly. "Yes, but right now Piccolo is a greater danger to this world than I am of use to it," he stated calmly. "You've nothing to worry about, Son Goku – the Kamis' Heaven is said to be a rather nice place this time of year."  
  
Goku closed his eyes for a moment – an obvious indication that he was in deep thought. I don't know about this…but he is my teacher…he must know what he's talking about… Finally, he sighed and nodded once. Straightening, squaring his shoulders, he started toward his enemy, pointedly ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. He hadn't been thinking the first time that he had killed one of these demons; he had been so different then, so angry. This time, the blindfold of his anger wouldn't descend to help him.  
  
He had never killed in cold blood before. To be honest, he wasn't so sure that he could.  
  
* * *  
  
Miles above the arena, a lone figure floated effortlessly, not at all disturbed by the buffeting wind which tore at the lose folds of his clothing like a nagging child. His arms were crossed loosely across his broad chest, and his eyes were half lidded in apparent unconcern. He, the oldest of Daimao's five sons, watched the scene with untempered scorn. The extraordinary eyesight common to his family allowed him to see the extent of his brother's injuries, and he knew that Piccolo wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.  
  
He also knew that, if Kami had his way, Piccolo wouldn't be getting up at all.  
  
Cymbal wiped a trickle of blood from the high, sharp cheekbone of a face that was startlingly like the one of his late sire, unconsciously wrinkling his nose a bit in disgust – not at bleeding, but at losing. Losing to a human, no less. He had always loathed humans. Especially Son Goku.  
  
His appearance was an exercise in extremities – anyone who could have seen him would not have doubted his identity unless they mistook him for his parent. He was a lighter green than his fallen sibling, and he wore the red sash that had been a trademark of his father with the air of one who had every right to such a distinction. His gi was an imitation of the one that his father had worn, being closer to maroon than midnight. No crest or symbol adorned his uniform; he had no need of one. Yes, Piccolo had been the one to inherit Daimao's memories, but the mark of his features rested most clearly on his firstborn.  
  
At another time, Cymbal might have made use of his enemy's distraction with a surprise attack, but he knew better than that. His battle with the triclops Tenshinhan had weakened him far too much to fight a recently healed Son Goku. Cymbal made a mental note to kill the idiotic old man with the senzou – Roshi, he thought - very slowly when the opportunity came. Very slowly indeed. On the bright side, that three-eyed human freak had been paid in full for his interference. Cymbal smiled thinly, but his mind was on other things.  
  
"If I'd brought the other three…perhaps we could have finished this today. Tambourine was right about that after all. I hope for his sake that he doesn't gloat too much." The demon spoke aloud as he tended to do when he was pondering. His voice was deep, but it didn't resonate. There was shallowness to it, like the sound of a cello on a recording.  
  
Hawklike, Cymbal's glaring red eyes narrowed as he watched his lifelong enemy advance toward his youngest brother. By then, he could actually see the purple spreading out from around Piccolo: it looked as if his brother was lying on a rumpled cloth. He hadn't seen his younger counterpart so badly hurt for some months – not since he had finished his last growth spurt. He viewed the scene with a growing sense of unreality. It was very strange, the way that Piccolo looked so different from the way he had that he was almost unrecognizable. Yet, there was sameness present in the events that made the demon decidedly uncomfortable.  
  
And not much of anything made Cymbal uncomfortable. Not the sight of blood, certainly not killing or watching others kill.  
  
Yet he felt a twinge of…something. It felt like doubt, or perhaps indecision. He wavered a moment, his eyes slitting further. Did he doubt that he could kill Goku without Piccolo, or was he undecided as to whether his brother was less trouble dead than alive? It can hardly be that, he thought irritably. Nothing could possibly be more difficult for me than Piccolo. Besides, I've never particularly cared for him…  
  
The demon raised a hand to his cheek to trace the fine bone, a twinge of remembered pain tingling beneath his fingertips. A humorless smile painted itself across his face. His decision was made. "So, little brother, you've failed. I shouldn't be surprised, you know, but it's still hard to believe that a monkey could prove too much for the likes of us. Ah well, at least I'm finally rid of you." Cymbal banked, turned, and flew off, calling a casual "Ja ne," over one shoulder as he went. Best decision I ever made, he thought fiercely. And he knew that the strange feeling blooming in his gut would wilt and die if he ignored it long enough. They always did.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo could not hear his brother's words - those were lost to the currents of the wind - but knew that he could expect no help. Not that he cared; he wouldn't have accepted Cymbal's aide if it had been offered. Besides, he had a more pressing concern – his imminent demise.  
  
Or, more specifically, his inability to do anything about it.  
  
He realized dimly that he was clenching his fist so hard that he had left a trail of bloody half-crescents across his palm. The blood felt strangely cool against his flesh – he must still be flushed from the battle. He didn't mind the pain; it helped to anchor his thoughts. It was strange that in the presence of so much agony, a small, nagging irritation could be so noticeable.  
  
He lay on his back, staring into the endless blue of the sky. He didn't know if he could move, could barely breathe. His shattered ribs shifted painfully each time he forced his tortured lungs to expand; he could feel the ends grating together. The sound of Son Goku's footsteps reached his ears, and he knew that he wouldn't have to worry about breathing much longer...or ever again.  
  
He didn't feel fear or anger, as he should have at such a realization. It was as if a hole had opened inside him, and all of those emotions had drained away. A bitter taste started in the back of his throat, but he wasn't certain if it was from his injuries or his frustration.  
  
He couldn't attribute his apathy to shock. He had seen death many times before. It was something that he had learned to accept as a certainty in his uncertain life – sooner or later, everyone had to die. What was life, anyway? All lives essentially had the same destination: a hole in the ground. If only I could have taken him with me… the demon thought, at last feeling a fluttering of emotion deep in his chest. He turned his face – quite an accomplishment, given his condition – and locked eyes with his approaching enemy.  
  
* * *  
  
Goku paused for a moment before walking toward the crater. Again, a surge of reluctance rose within him – and with it, the freezing-cold feeling that he was stepping into something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. There are no senzous left…otherwise I could offer him one. As it is now, he's in a lot of pain. I know he wouldn't want me to help him, so maybe it's better this way. Son's steps almost faltered. Almost. Then again, no one's asked him…  
  
Goku kept walking.  
  
There had been times when he had killed, though he had never been comfortable with it. This, he thought, felt more like murder. "Murder" was a word that you used for killing a person. Was a demon – was Piccolo – really a person at all? He has to be, doesn't he? He thinks, that's for sure; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to fight like he just did. Does he feel anything, though? If he really is Daimao's reincarnation, he doesn't feel much, at least nothing good. That's what makes someone a person, isn't it? Goku wanted very badly to rub his temples, sit down, do anything to relieve this incoming headache.  
  
Well, there was one way to find out. He could look at his eyes. If they were anything like Daimao's, anything at all, then he would know.  
  
He could still hear Daimao laughing. Only his bloodlust had allowed Goku to defeat him; that, a lot of luck, and a little divine intervention. The moment of Daimao's death would remain with him forever, especially his eyes. Anger. Hatred. A madness that burned anyone who could see it, even when the demon was relaxed. Or as relaxed as he got, anyway. It had seemed to Goku that Daimao had never been completely at ease. His eyes were always moving, or fixed on something (usually someone) with an intensity that seemed to corrode with burning fingers through the shell of flesh to tug at the soul inside. Goku had never really been able to decide whether the pull exerted by Daimao's drawing gaze had been more like an attempt to seize the soul it latched onto, or more like a man drowning in the sea of his anguish and latching onto anything he could reach, only to find that he was pulling it in with him.  
  
Whatever the pull was, Son fully expected to find it in the eyes of a man who, he had been told, was Daimao all over again. He reached the lip of the crater and, like an explorer about to plunge into unknown waters, he paused for the barest trace of a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts.  
  
For the first time in his life, Goku froze. The obsidian orbs that glared up at him from Piccolo's shattered body were not Daimao's. There was no fear floating across them to cause them to widen or dilate; there was only resignation written clearly in the half-lowered lids. Defiance stood in place of disbelief and, was he imagining it, or was a faint hint of sadness touching the uncompromising planes of the demon's face? Also, oddly, the insanity that had constantly confronted Goku in the eyes of a being made up of nothing but evil was completely absent from his offspring. Piccolo's glare was calm, unwavering, and perfectly sane. They held, but did not devour.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo waited with growing impatience for the final blow to fall. Seconds stretched into minutes. Then, to his astonishment, Goku's brows knit in confusion. The hand that should have snuffed out the candle flame of his existence wavered. Dropped. Relaxed at the man's side.  
  
Ironically, it was Kami who gave voice to the question that was threatening to overpower Piccolo's mind. "Son Goku," the deity snapped, his voice a clap of thunder, "what are you doing?"  
  
The cheering and celebrating in the stands ground to a halt like a train that had inexplicably run out of fuel. Piccolo could well imagine the baffled expressions that the humans must have been sporting. In fact, the only one who didn't look completely lost was Son Goku himself. "I don't know," he stated. Then – maddeningly - he flashed his usual, face-splitting grin. "Oi, I'm glad I didn't go through with it, though. I think I would have felt really bad later."  
  
Kami's face had undergone a change, from surprised to comprehending to resolute. "Goku, I know where you stand on this…issue, but it's in this planet's best interest that you…" He trailed off. His onetime student's expression was changing, taking on its stubborn set. It was time to try a different angle. "Haven't your experiences with these demons been enough to convince you that they're a danger to everyone around them?"  
  
"He hasn't hurt anyone yet," Goku countered, gesturing toward the hole. "Well, I mean, besides me. And Krillen, but he's okay now, too."  
  
"And it would have been a large portion of the audience, had they not panicked and evacuated the area," Kami persisted, his brow clouding like the sky before a storm.  
  
"But they did leave!" the human blurted, his eyes widening a bit in innocent consternation. "The important thing is that none of them got hurt, isn't it?"  
  
Kami rolled his eyes. "No, Son Goku, that is not the point. The point is that he could, would, and will do harm to humankind as often as he can. He hates your people with a passion, he always has. Remember, he…" here, the guardian of earth closed his eyes, "…was a part of me. I know Daimao."  
  
"But this isn't Daimao," the human stated confidently..  
  
Kami snorted. "Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't – he's close enough. Listen, Goku, if you are so adamant that he remain alive, then would you object too strongly to his being re-absorbed?"  
  
Piccolo had been fully prepared to die, but being absorbed was completely out of the question. No, he thought, resignation giving way to an insurmountable wave of fury. I could deal with being killed outright, but I will not be sucked into that worthless old man. With a snarl, almost a roar of effort, Piccolo shot to his feet. Cries of alarm from the stand replaced triumphant cheers.  
  
This may kill me, he realized grimly as the earth beneath him seemed to tilt ridiculously on its axis, but it beats re-enacting the story of Jonah.  
  
When his vision stopped swimming, the first thing that he noticed was that Son Goku was regarding him with nothing short of astonishment. Ignoring his older counterpart completely, Piccolo drew his lips back in a feral smile. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it running like a miniature river down his face. "You might not," he growled mockingly as he struggled to stay on his feet, "but I do." The earth beneath him was moving too fast, his head was buzzing. Attacking wasn't an option. If he was going to persuade Son Goku to kill him, it was going to have to be by threat – or, more accurately, by bluff. "I'd rather die than live as part of him – and if I'm going to die, then I'm not going to be the only one. You're coming with me."  
  
Son Goku actually seemed relieved. Worse, he showed no inclination to attack. Wow…  
  
"Why do you wait? Are you afraid?" Even Piccolo scarcely recognized his own voice; it had lost all of its smoothness and came out as little more than an adapted growl.  
  
The man that Piccolo had been raised to hate and born to kill looked at him with wide, reassuring eyes and held out a hand, palm up. "Piccolo, come on, it's over...you don't have to get absorbed, whatever that means. Kami probably didn't mean it anyway, he was just trying to get me to kill you."  
  
Kami rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. "I'm sure that's going to make him feel much better, Goku," he reproached softly.  
  
The human put a hand behind his head, mentally went over what had just come out of his mouth, and groaned. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Um, I'm not going to kill you either!" he said the last part with his eyes directly on Piccolo. "And neither is anyone else…today, anyway."  
  
For a long stretch of time, Piccolo couldn't seem to think of anything – his mind was too impeded by swelling confusion. Son Goku was offering him protection from a decrepit old man. Ignoring an offer to finish a fight. That was a slap across the face if he had ever been given one. For a moment, he was too busy recoiling to react.  
  
Son, mistaking his hesitance for acceptance, took a step forward.  
  
The demon crouched slightly, going on the defensive. "You will pay dearly for this insult, Son Goku," he hissed. Without warning, Piccolo launched himself into air, blind indignation pulsing through his veins as wildly as his ki had scant moments before. He continued straight upward until he had risen above the arena's vacated seats before trying to level his flight. For a heart-stopping moment, he felt his power falter…it was like an air bubble in a straw, signifying that his store of energy was virtually nonexistent.  
  
Piccolo knew he was going to fall in that instant, he knew he was going to crash into those worthless human chairs, and he knew that it wouldn't kill him. Worst of all, he knew that he would most likely still be conscious. He would look up and find Son Goku staring down at him, his eyes virtually brimming over with that detestable pity…No. Not that. Never.  
  
The thought was enough to draw a final flare of energy from the demon's depleted store. He ceased to drop, though his barely-visible aura faded from cobalt blue to a strained blue-gray, and he began to move away from the arena at a fair speed, though for him it was painfully slow. He only hoped that he would make it far enough from that accursed battleground and those bumbling humans that no one would be close enough to see him crash.  
  
* * *  
  
As Goku watched his opponent disappear over the horizon, his heart tightened painfully. Piccolo was doing a fair job of hiding it, but even Son could see that he was weaving more than he should have been. The demon wasn't trying to make a getaway; he was going somewhere private so that he could crumble. He won't get far, not hurt as badly as he is. Too bad, he was a great fighter. I would have liked a rematch. "I told you," he said matter-of-factly. "Daimao would never have done that. He would have self- destructed or tried to blow up the whole arena or something."  
  
Even though he couldn't see his old teacher, Son heard him sigh again. "Goku, I know you won't believe me, but I think that you've made a grave mistake. If he lives, he's going to be even more determined to kill you than before."  
  
Goku shook his head, smiling a little. "I know. He thinks I'm mocking him or something. He'll come around. And he'll live, I'm sure of it."  
  
Kami actually slapped himself on the forehead. Son winced internally – he must really be getting under his latest sensei's skin. "Son Goku, he's pure evil. He can't come around – for him, darkness is full circle. However, I doubt that anything I say is going to convince you to go after him." In spite of his harsh (well, harsh for Kami, anyway) words, the deity sounded vaguely amused. "Perhaps you'd be interested in taking up my position? You're hard-headed enough…"  
  
  
  
Hiding a smile as he shook his head – he had known all along that Kami wouldn't hold his actions against him for long - Goku turned on his heel and made his way over to a blackened, scorched corner of the arena. Somehow he doubted that any number of washings would restore the ruined tile to its original purity. The blemishing soot would have been hard enough to clear away, but the blood that lay scrawled across the floor like red ink spattered carelessly in a massive signature would be far more difficult to cover.  
  
In the middle of this devastation, a virtually unrecognizable form lay facedown, still and unbreathing. There wasn't much left to distinguish this body as Tenshinhan's. The once-brilliant green sash had been burnt beyond any color but ash gray in the places where it wasn't stained copper. The trademark three eyes were swollen shut. All that really remained to set aside this corpse from any other was its size…and the frail-looking, dollish Chaotsu who was kneeling beside what remained of his friend. Chaotsu was not sobbing, nor was he doing much of anything at all. He only sat there, unmindful of the soot that was staining his childish hands a slate gray, staring down at a single, star-shaped bloodstain.  
  
Son Goku shuddered once in spite of the sunlight that pounded down on him. I didn't know that Cymbal had improved that much…Tien and I held our own against him and two of the others three years ago. Then again, I didn't know about Piccolo at all. A lot has changed.   
  
Goku was not so naïve that he hadn't expected trouble. He had known for a fact that Cymbal, at least, would show up at this Budokai. His hope, though, was that he could fight Daimao's oldest son without dragging anyone else into the fray. Unfortunately, things had not gone that way. His first indication that something was wrong had come when he saw Cymbal stroll in with another being, obviously of the same race, that no one recognized.  
  
Something in the way the two acted around one another suggested that their relationship was a bit less than amiable. Goku had seen the way that they watched one another even more warily than they did him, he could sense the friction that hung between them like some unpenatrable curtain. Even so, they were there for the same reason; the newcomer had assured him of this himself when Goku asked him. That had been before the match, or rather mismatch, between Cymbal and Tenshinhan had ended…  
  
* * *  
  
The same cruel, derisive laughter that had come so often from Diamoh rang across the arena. Cymbal wasn't really fighting – he was dancing. It was a strange dance, one that involved no frills and no posing, only Tenshinhan, who was trying desperately to follow the demon's movements quickly enough to land a punch. Goku growled, unconsciously widening his stance. "No killing, Cymbal," he muttered, his eyes following the movements below with unmatched intensity, "there's no killing in Budokais…" he didn't know if he was saying this to reassure himself or if he was hoping that the demon would somehow hear him.  
  
"Cymbal isn't here to play some silly tournament game," a new voice, one that Goku had not heard before, growled. It was as deep as Cymbal's, but richer, colder. It seemed to rumble a bit at the ends of words, but it didn't grate. The monkey-tailed man turned to regard the speaker, not too surprised to find the other demon standing behind him with all the easy self-assurance of a viper. This one stood a little taller than Cymbal did, his eyes were darker as was his skin, and his gi was the color of the ocean during a hurricane. One corner of this being's mouth twisted slightly at the look of astonishment that must have crossed Goku's face. "Neither am I."  
  
Another cry of pain, obviously human, echoed from the arena floor.  
  
Goku felt his tail come free of his waist and set up its customary lashing. He longed to turn around and see how Ten was faring, but… "Who are you?" Kami had already told him that this was Piccolo Daimao reborn, but he felt as if he had to hear it for himself.  
  
The strange being inclined his head slightly, that one corner of his lip rising a bit higher. "I'll tell you this much," he answered mockingly, "I'm not Ma Junia."  
  
The light of an energy blast flared up, casting both warriors into stark black and white before fading back to normal, daylight colors.  
  
"What is your name, then?" Goku asked, the fine hairs on his tail beginning to bristle. "And why are you here?"  
  
"I'm here to kill you. My name is Piccolo." Apparently enjoying his future opponent's confusion, the being had glanced toward the arena."Hmmm, Cymbal's getting careless," Piccolo whispered. He certainly didn't sound concerned. Goku had started to ask what he meant when he heard Ten's shout: "Taiyo-Ken!"  
  
Cymbal screamed in pain, flinging himself up and back, out of his opponent's reach. The triclops' hands formed a triangle before his face. "Kikohou..."  
  
The powerful blast arced up toward the blinded demon. Perhaps he heard it coming, or maybe he had felt the displacing of air that always accompanied a ki attack, but the eldest of the Demon King's sons threw himself to his right. The main part of the beam tore past him harmlessly. The outskirts of the blast, however…  
  
Cymbal was lifted from the ground by the force of the energy, and slammed with a resounding crack against one of the marble pillars. The pillar shattered. For a long moment, it looked as if Cymbal was going to fall out of the ring. Goku leaned forward eagerly, could sense Piccolo doing the same, and for an eerie moment, Goku felt as if they were both hoping for the same outcome.  
  
It didn't happen. Cymbal twisted like a falling cat, still too dazed to fly, but cognizant enough to land in the ring anyway. Goku glanced at his newly found rival, and thought he saw disappointment in the set of Piccolo's shoulders. The human's brows arched in surprise – and then he heard the crowd cry out as one. Cymbal was up to a kneeling position, though he couldn't see. Smiling in that grimacing way of his, Cymbal had lifted his hands and fired in the direction of Tenshinhan's labored breathing.  
  
The blast, when it hit, was like the end of the world. A spray of tile was torn up like confetti tore free, and then rained from the sky. Goku threw up both arms to block flying rubble, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for Ten's ki, for anything…  
  
"He's killed him!" the announcer's voice fairly screamed. "That's a disqualification!"  
  
Goku heard a wail that could only have come from Chaotsu, and he knew that it was true. Tien was gone. He opened his eyes, stood up, glared down at the ring. One of the judges was talking to the announcer. The announcer shook his head, cupping a hand over his microphone, seeming to be arguing heatedly with the judge. The judge pointed to a paragraph in an open book emphatically. The announcer shook his head again, furiously. The judge again proffered the book.  
  
The announcer sighed visibly, his shoulders moving up and down in resignation. Then, he lifted his hand from the mike. "No…disqualification. The contestant…could not see…and the blast he launched…was no greater than that used by Tenshinhan…who…resorted to energy blasts first…this falls under self-defense…no disqualification."  
  
"WHAT!?" Goku all but screamed. His was the only voice that rose, startling in the silence that gripped the arena. The other crowd-members remained entrenched in shock.  
  
Cymbal tilted his head and flashed a broad, amused smile at the people in the stands – his vision was obviously returning – and waved his hand once, dismissively.  
  
The announcer's microphone clattered to the ground. A good five minutes passed before he picked it up again. "Opponent 16…withdraws from the tournament."  
  
Goku's brows knitted hopelessly in confusion. He felt as if he had just been kicked in the gut. "Why did he pull out? He wasn't feeling guilty, that's for sure…"  
  
Piccolo chuckled softly. "No. He was my opponent for the next round. Now I advance automatically to fight you, and I will do so without the damage that he could have caused me. He was more seriously injured than I am, and so he was the one to withdraw. Simple enough even for you to understand, ne?"  
  
* * *  
  
.  
  
Goku knelt beside the small, doll-like creature. "We'll wish him back, don't worry." Chaotsu nodded in agreement, but his eyes were still brimming with tears.  
  
"Goku!"  
  
Son turned to face his best friend Krillen, who had flown down to his side. "You won! Of course, I knew you would," he added hastily, "but man! I've never seen anything that close. It looked like Piccolo was gonna win for a while there...not, eh, that I was ever fooled or anything..."  
  
For the first time that day, Son Goku felt like laughing. Casting aside the odd ache that had settled in his chest over the past few moments, the man lifted his smaller friend onto one shoulder and trotted over to the stands.  
  
* * *  
  
He couldn't fly any farther. The wilderness beneath him blurred as if he were underwater (so much so, in fact that he looked around to make sure that there was no sea in sight, for fear that he had landed in one without realizing it) and it wasn't just from the descending twilight. Every breath was like inhaling a mouthful of needles.  
  
Therefore, it came as no real surprise to Piccolo when he found that he was losing altitude, or that he had started spiraling as if he were some hatchling learning to fly all over again. His mind was so dulled that it took him several times longer than it should have to realize that this turn of events was probably not good. The demon shook his head once, trying to take a deep breath to focus, but it was too painful. A last effort to slow his descent with his depleted energy proved to be partially successful in that he didn't die immediately when he hit the ground. The jolt of impact was still enough to make him wonder if he should have bothered.  
  
Cursing, the demon turned his head, coughing blood onto the sand, watching detachedly as it spider-webbed into a graceful splotch on the whiteness. This is the worst I've ever been… No. No pity. I won't have it from him, from myself, from anyone.   
  
Driven by that thought, he tried once to change positions, but the hot pains surfacing in various parts of his body stopped him short. Nothing seemed worth the strain of moving, so he heaved a shallow sigh and settled back into the sand. The once-white grains were already damp with his blood – he was not bleeding nearly as heavily as before, but he was still covered with the liquid from earlier. The grains clung to him like the wet sand on a beach clings to sunbather's feet. He hardly noticed and couldn't have done anything about it if he had. Besides, the sand was still warm from the sun – even though the granules were abrasive to his raw skin and open wounds, the heat was welcome.  
  
He wouldn't have such a luxury for long. He knew from long experience that the desert grew very cold at night. Just one more reason that he probably wouldn't live to see morning. Stop it, he thought with mounting anger. Stop moping and move.   
  
His eyes, as if ignoring him, began to close of their own accord. The demon shook his head, desperately trying to wake himself up. If he lost consciousness, he knew what would happen. His body might start to heal itself – of course, he might be too far gone to recover anyway, but even if he wasn't, he would be in a virtual coma in the meantime. In the desert sun, it wouldn't take him long to dehydrate. He would die.  
  
Not seeming to care, his eyes closed completely. For a while, he was still fully aware and consciously trying to roust himself. Then he realized how tired he was – he couldn't fight his body's demand for sleep any longer. It really didn't matter, anyway. Abandoning his useless efforts, he allowed his mind to blank and his thoughts to be obscured by darkness in the same way that a funeral shroud covers a corpse.  
  
Over the horizon, the crescent moon climbed like a silver scythe lifted by the Reaper's hand to gather in souls. It seemed as if the creatures of the desert had all disappeared, for there was nothing to be seen in the quicksilver spread cast by this moon save for a single, broken form, scraps of cloth occasionally fluttering a bit in a breeze.  
  
* * *  
  
A massive book, black as tar and emblazoned with a pentagram that could well have been drawn in blood, crashed to the slate-gray of the stone floor and lay there like a tear of night sky against a sheet of clouds. Even though the room was large and domed, the fall did not echo. It seemed as if the sound had been cut off, absorbed by the lightless cover.  
  
Tambourine made no move to retrieve it.  
  
His dark eyes, temporarily unfocused, arched toward a window as if in pain. The partial moon flooded the whites with silver, but the midnight irises were unaffected. The fragmented light that they glittered with was of themselves.  
  
"So…" the word was a missile. It didn't echo, nor did the walls, which seemed to be made of wet slices of darkness, absorb it; instead, the word seemed to fly directly out the window, traveling unreflected and unchanged into the night. "I expected as much." There was no anger in the voice, no sadness. No anything.  
  
A green hand clenched against a table to steady a thin, wraithlike frame, gripping so tightly that deep gouges appeared in the wood. The demon swayed slightly as his eyes regained their focus, becoming stronger, stranger. "If he had let us come – I never expected you to win, Piccolo. Son Goku was fighting for his life. You were only fighting for death. Yours or his…I don't think it really mattered much to you, did it? You didn't know that yourself – but no one hides anything from me for long. I knew. And I knew that this would happen."  
  
He looked up suddenly, his eyes fastening on a wall as if it were only a glass curtain. He stayed posed like that, taut and waiting. He looked away with equal abruptness, sitting back down in the chair he had been occupying. One long, supple hand reached down, stretching across the cover of the book. There was a strange harmony to the way that the hand clasped the tome. It was the way that a skilled painter touched a brush, the way that a professional basketball player held a ball. The book was not being carried – it was an extension of the demon's arm.  
  
The demon opened the book with the unconcern of a parent opening a newspaper – a cup of coffee in his other hand would not have seemed out of place. He bowed his head over the page, one that was headed with illuminated text. It read: EXORCISM AND CONTAINMENT.  
  
His lips were pressed into a bloodless, thin line. The hands did not shake. The pages did not rattle. And if his eyes wandered now and again to the crescent moon hovering outside his window, it was most likely only to rest them from the scrawling script on the pages that his delicate, practiced fingers turned.  
  
* * *  
  
Kami checked another sigh as he landed on the marble platform that was his sanctuary, his office, his home, and his life. He was really getting too old for such an adventurous line of work, he thought, but apprentices were a bit difficult to come by. Make that very difficult to come by. Perhaps the hours had something to do with it, he thought ruefully.  
  
"Kami!" a deep, bass voice cried. "Oh, I was so worried – you could have been killed!" After a split-second's silence, the speaker added a belated, "On multiple occasions!"  
  
The aging deity chuckled softly. "Come now, Popo, has it been so very long since I've had to fight?"  
  
"Not long enough, Kami," Popo replied, crossing his arms.  
  
Kami-sama allowed himself another indulgent moment of amusement before the dull ache spreading through his body – most notably in the back, shoulder, and chest – drew his attention to a more serious matter. His eyes softened ever so slightly in what one who knew him well enough would recognize as worry. "Popo, how is Piccolo managing?"  
  
The unaging denizen of the lookout immediately became grim. "Not very well, Kami – not well at all. Should we do something?"  
  
Closing his eyes, the old guardian bowed his head. Presently, he looked up. "No. I have a feeling that "something" is going to happen on its own. Fate has her own agenda to play here, Popo."  
  
"But what if he dies?" the rounded entity countered.  
  
Kami shrugged. "Then that is what fate has in mind. We should not intervene. Besides, after my talk of merging, I have no doubt but that Piccolo would do himself greater injury trying to get away from either of us."  
  
Popo blinked. "Yes, I remember you saying something about that. Why did you bring it up, Kami? You also suggested killing him, which isn't like you at all. Would you really have…"  
  
Shaking his head, the Kami replied, "I don't know. Probably not."  
  
If anything, Popo looked more confused. "Then why suggest it? Before, he merely despised you. Now…"  
  
Smirking in that unsettling way of his, Kami said, "I didn't really want to. Call it intuition. You know that Kamis sometimes have premonitions. I haven't seen much with this one, Popo, but I have seen enough to know that a very strange turn of events is coming up. Our lives will be getting much more complicated over the next few years. Now, if you have no further questions that need answering, I intend to get some sleep."  
  
"Of course, Kami," Popo said softly as his old friend made his way to the palace. He couldn't help but notice the strained expression on Kami's face. He was feeling Piccolo's injuries…Popo could guess that much. "I'll wake you up at the usual time – if you're still alive."  
  
* * *  
  
Goku smiled and stretched, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his stiff muscles. Behind him was the house he had built yesterday – he had expected the job to take longer, but the Ox King had helped him - and his new wife, Chichi, was still sleeping soundly in the big double bed. He really didn't understand why anyone would want to sleep through such a morning. Naps were for the afternoon.  
  
Well, he could get used to that, he guessed. Actually, he was going to have to get used to a lot of things. There was family life, wiping his feet before he came inside, not training all the time…It seemed to him that an old book had been closed the day before at the Budokai, and a new one had been started. Now all he needed to do was work on his reading…he'd never really gotten the hang of that.  
  
It was by pure chance that he felt it: a slight flickering of ki, almost like a sputtering candle, just east of where he was. The power, whatever it was, was very low, possibly dying, but familiar. Son hesitated a moment. He glanced back at the house nervously to make sure that his wife had not yet awakened and then set off toward the most formidable opponent that he had ever faced.  
  
The soft, verdant treetops of Mount Paozo gave way to rolling sand dunes, much like an ocean giving way to the shore. A spattered green and purple object caught Goku's eye, shockingly dark as it was against the sun- lightened sand. He landed carefully, tucking his tail securely around his waist.  
  
Piccolo lay on the ground before him. He wasn't moving. Not even Son Goku's trained senses could detect a ki level much above one, and even that was probably just residue. When someone with a high power level died, it took a very long time for every last trace of ki to seep away. These "ki ghosts" had tricked him before – most memorably when grandpa Gohan had died.  
  
Son Goku closed his eyes, offering his most powerful opponent a moment of silence. It hurt him inside to see such a waste, hurt more than it should have, more than he would have expected. I'm sorry, Piccolo. I wish you would have let me help you – it could have been different. If I'd known that you were gonna go off and die, I would have followed you. Maybe it would even have been kinder to kill you.   
  
Sprawled out on his side, the demon looked much smaller than he actually was. His eyes were closed, the heavy brows drawn into a scowl. The earth around him was marred by swirling gashes, as if he had tried to move after he had crashed. A thick bluish-purple fluid continued to drip from a few of his wounds; in other places it had dried into a dark, nearly black crust. Even the sand he was lying on was tinted purple, though it was light like a watercolor wash.  
  
Goku knelt beside the unmoving body of his enemy. He had the distinct feeling that he should do something for the warrior – bury him, at the very least. He wondered if touching the corpse would be irreverent. The demon certainly wouldn't have put up with that if he had been alive. On the other hand, he wasn't – that was the whole problem.  
  
Plagued by indecision, the man did nothing but stare at his late rival for some time. The burns that had turned his emerald skin to the color of dark pine needles. The elven ears. The way that his chest rose only occasionally, barely a quarter of an inch…the way that the grains of sand near his mouth were faintly disturbed with every rise…wait a minute. Goku's eyes narrowed, making sure that he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. He was. Piccolo was still breathing, if just barely.  
  
His first reaction was to utter a disbelieving question: "Piccolo?" Of course, there was no answer. Nervously, Goku reached out a hand and shook the prone warrior a little. This time, he did get a reply of sorts: a barely audible groan. Son grinned in spite of himself. "Wow, I guess you're more stubborn than I gave you credit for."  
  
Son's relief lasted about as long as it took for him to figure out that this turn of events had opened a new problem: if Piccolo was alive, what should be done with him? The man sighed and shifted to a sitting position, crossing his legs Indian style. He propped his elbow on his knee, rested his chin on his palm, and started to think, which was always a very serious undertaking for him. His long, furry tail unwound from his waist and began to weave pensively back and forth as a charmed cobra would.  
  
"Kami thinks I should kill you," Goku muttered. "It'd be a real shame seeing as you've already survived this long, Pic - but maybe he's right." Son didn't know why he was addressing the demon, but he didn't bother to puzzle that through. For him, it was best to stick to one train of thought at a time. "If you're just gonna go around killing people, well…Kami knows more about you than I do. He's told me a lot about you, y'know, and most of it wasn't good. Why do you want to kill everyone, anyway? People aren't so bad." Realizing whom he was talking about, he added, " Well, most of us aren't."  
  
Piccolo didn't so much as twitch. Goku sighed and fidgeted like a student who is called to the blackboard and confronted with a difficult math problem.  
  
"You're evil. I know that, I guess I can't really blame you. I mean, if I had family like yours, I guess I'd be kind of upset, too. Besides, you're a good warrior, best I've ever met." Goku smiled a little, remembering the fight. Here on the ground was possibly the only being who was a match for him in stength, speed, skill, or determination. "I haven't fought your brothers for a while, but I saw Cymbal fight. We're better than he is."  
  
Still, Piccolo was silent. "This would be a lot easier if you'd give me some input," the human said wryly. "You know more about you than any of us. All I know firsthand is that you can fight – well, that and you really don't like me much, do you? Why is that, Piccolo? You never even met me before the Budokai because you aren't Daimao."  
  
Son waited a while before speaking again. "I don't know why I keep thinking you'll talk back. You wouldn't give me a straight answer while you were awake, much less…hey, hold on a second. If you were awake, you could answer some of this stuff. You probably wouldn't want to, but you could."  
  
In Goku's mind, that settled it; he was really, genuinely curious. The man was a lot like a cat that way. He had gone so far as to lift Piccolo from the ground and prepare to take off when he realized that he had no idea where to take him. Goku lay the still-unconscious demon back down as gently as he could and resumed thinking.  
  
I could take him home, I guess... A mental image of Chichi brandishing a rolling pin and screeching in fury caused Goku to wince. Maybe that's not such a great idea. He's hurt pretty bad; maybe he should be in a hospital... An army of white-clad nurses armed with antiseptic, syringes, and various other instruments of torture paraded through Son's mind. Man, I wouldn't wish that on anybody.   
  
Goku gave in to massaging his temples to stave off a headache. Kami'll want to lock me up in a nut bin for even suggesting something like that – besides, he's mad enough at me already. And I don't even want to think about what Piccolo would do if he woke up and Kami was around. Master Roshi won't help, Krillen will faint or something if I even bring Piccolo near him, Yamcha will blast him on sight, it's not safe for him to be around people... A small cave a short distance away caught his eye. "Well, it's not much, but it should work for now," he stated cheerfully as he once again lifted Piccolo.  
  
* * *  
  
The old stone fortress clung tenaciously to the mountainside. To most, it would have been frightening: the walls were large and squarish, turrets spiraled up ominously from the inner walls like spears, accenting the austere lines of the battlements. Iron spikes jutted out from the walls at irregular intervals, giving those walls the look of a large set of crooked, bared teeth. Any passers by would have avoided the structure like a plague... but then, Cymbal reflected, one of the many advantages of living in the Tsumi Tsubri Mountains was that very few passed by.  
  
The eldest son of Daimao glided through the open skylight, landing in a broad, cavernous room. He walked up to his customary seat at the circular table, sweeping the room briefly with his restless eyes. Three other beings, all bearing a strong resemblance to their dead sire, already sat in three of the four remaining chairs. Drum and Piano, hulking creatures that were easily eight feet tall and almost half that broad across the shoulders, sat to his right and left. Tambourine was sitting to the left of Piano, his long fingers pressing together lightly at the tips, his expression studiously blank. Cymbal swore mentally, his raw nerves vibrating like violin strings. He's going to make a nuisance of himself, the elder demon thought, annoyed.  
  
No shorter than Cymbal or Piccolo, Tambourine was slighter, although still well muscled. Physically, he didn't look much like a fighter. Thank all the fates for that, Cymbal thought, smirking a bit. If his power level were even half as remarkable as his insolence, we'd all be in trouble.   
  
The chair opposite Cymbal's remained empty, as did the unadorned throne that crouched at the far end of the room. Cymbal made a mental note to have both removed as quickly as possible. The chair, which had very rarely been used before, was worse than useless now. The throne was something that none of them had used to begin with; it had belonged to Daimao. Now, it served only as a reminder – and an ominous one at that. Even Drum, who was notoriously unimaginative, had often complained that the chair bothered him. He said he could occasionally feel eyes boring into him from that direction.  
  
Reactions to that complaint varied greatly. Piano would shrug dully. Tambourine had behaved indifferently, save for a faint glitter in the pupils of his eyes that could have meant any number of things. Piccolo, on rare occasions when he had been around, would snort disdainfully and mutter something derogatory. This was a rare issue on which Piccolo and Cymbal could agree – stone was stone. The fact that Cymbal sat facing the aforementioned stone rather than with his back to it was purely coincidental.  
  
"Well?" growled Piano, not bothering to hide his impatience.  
  
"The monkey's still alive," Cymbal stated, voice never wavering, tone resigned.  
  
"And where is our brother?" Drum asked, tapping his fingers on the table absently. "Did he die, or was it just too much trouble to come back here and report?"  
  
"I don't know. When I left, he was bleeding his life out on the arena floor. We need not trouble ourselves over him." The oldest of the four turned to inspecting his claws as if looking for some lingering trace of blood, though if one looked hard enough, one might have seen a satisfied smile playing about his thin lips.  
  
"Do you think that Kami died with him?" Piano asked, leaning forward with almost childish eagerness.  
  
Cymbal shrugged. "Who knows, or cares, what happened to that old fool. What matters is that Son Goku is alive, and Piccolo isn't. He had little to do with us anyway; he only worked with us when he had no other recourse. He did not disgrace us, at least; Daimao was right about his power, but he was too...independent."  
  
A low, smooth voice made itself heard for the first time. The speaker sounded as if he were whispering. "How sure are you that he's dead, brother?" The tone held no concern, no hope, no satisfaction, and only a very little interest. But then, Tambourine didn't show interest in much of anything.  
  
His gaze remaining downcast, the oldest of the demons pressed his lips together tightly. "He had lost. He was bleeding heavily. Had a few broken bones, more likely than not. Son Goku had just eaten a senzou and was headed toward him. He'd need more lives than a cat to get out of that one, Tambourine."  
  
Tambourine shrugged. "I suppose so. It's just as well – convenient, in a way – that he should die just as he was becoming difficult to control. It's saved you the trouble of having to kill him.  
  
Cymbal looked up sharply at Tambourine, searching for any sign of accusation. There was no outward indication of insincerity in his younger brother's mannerism. Tambourine met his brother's gaze unflinchingly with relaxed eyes and half-lowered lids. It was not as if Tambourine were looking at him or into him. The stare was not defiant – was, in fact, far less belligerent than those which Piccolo had often directed at him. The look was offensive only because Cymbal felt as if he weren't there. Yes, that was the problem with Tambourine exactly: he made people feel as if they had no selves, as if they were mere extensions of everyone else. And Cymbal hated it.  
  
.  
  
"I'm glad that you see it that way," the eldest demon said softly, testing for a response. One didn't respond to something that didn't exist.  
  
Tambourine's posture remained lax – in fact, he seemed bored. Cymbal fought back a growl – how did he manage always to react in the exact way that Cymbal didn't want him to without being openly…anything? He hated talking to his younger brother. He always felt as if he had looked up a half-second too late, as if Tambourine were laughing at him whenever he turned away. As if Tambourine knew what he wanted and purposely withheld it.  
  
"Should we attack Son Goku now, Cymbal?"  
  
The eldest brother started, shaken from his reverie by Piano's suggestion. "He is too powerful," he snapped, emptying his frustration into those words. "We must continue our training and wait for the right moment. Who knows, something favorable might come up." 


	2. And inside out

Piccolo realized dimly that he was dreaming…but only dimly. Not enough to change what was going on. Not enough to wake himself up, not enough to cast off the increasingly disturbing images that were settling like layers of dust on his subconscious. He had heard Tambourine say once that most humans dreamed about things that had never happened and never would happen – he hadn't thought to question how exactly his brother knew this.  
  
Demons, though, were different. They always dreamed either about the past or the future…according to his brother. And Piccolo's dreams were of the past. Always.  
  
* * *  
  
The child had matured very quickly. Six months ago he had been an infant, discovering the newness of the world around him with excusable wonder…and a shadow of remembrance. He had heard battlecries in the back of his mind before he discovered that air was breathable. When he had looked at water for the first time, the first thought to enter his mind had been, "It's a lot like blood…"  
  
As his body grew, so did the memories. He had known all along with a strange, child-like intuition, that the pictures in his mind were not his. He had the vague notion that he had borrowed them from somewhere. Someone. Someone that he couldn't quite remember. He had an old memory – one that was his – about struggling free of something white and leathery, something he later recognized as an eggshell. Of emerging next to a body that was coated in purple – that was torn through the center….  
  
He had known, without knowing how he knew, that this was a being to whom he owed a great deal. He had remembered parts of this person, whom he had never met. He remembered a pair of strange eyes. He remembered sensing things from this being through the leathery wall – anger, but also an untapped, unbelievable disappointment, as if he had been promised something grand, but had never received it.  
  
And then the body had disappeared in a soundless, forceless explosion that left only smoke and a feeling that the young demon later knew as loss. Piccolo also knew now who that being had been. His earlier memories pained him like a poorly knitted bone in rainy weather – a dull ache that never really left.  
  
Not even when every other part of his body ached from pushing himself to his limits and beyond, learning the techniques that were imbedded in those floating strands of secondhand knowledge.  
  
It didn't matter to Piccolo that the memory he had of Son – he would never give that human the honor of calling him by his given – was not his, but his father's. All he cared about was that one day, when he had looked up at the sun to determine his direction, the brilliant orange had flipped some kind of switch in his mind, and he had been able to fully remember…  
  
Orange. Like a gi. Like a gi that a particular little boy had worn in one of the memories-that-weren't.  
  
Son Goku had been dressed in orange on The Day. His aura had been the sun's rays come down to earth. Remembered pain, pain that made the scrapes, bruises, and even the occasional broken bone acquired from his blind attempts at survival seem like nothing, drove him on. He also knew, with an intuition that was anything but childish, that any chance at happiness or innocence a demonspawn might have had had been crushed by that same pain.  
  
That, and the occasional encounter with local humans. Thinking of those people, Piccolo felt his lips tighten into a straight, angry line. Animals. All of them. And too ignorant to know any better. He supposed it wasn't their fault they were so foolish – he would just have to avoid them.  
  
He was jolted out of his reverie by a rush of air that caused his campfire to shudder, throwing up a warding cloud of sparks. He narrowed his eyes – he knew enough about wind to know what wasn't natural…  
  
Beside him, dangerously close, someone cleared his throat reproachfully.  
  
Piccolo twisted to his feet so quickly he thought he might have left his skin behind, automatically shifting into a fighting stance. And he saw who his visitor was.  
  
A being who didn't look even remotely human. A point in his favor, as far as Piccolo was concerned. He was sitting comfortably against a rock, a definite smirk on his face. His skin was green, like Piccolo's…he had the same ears, the same general face structure. Muscles rippled like knotted chords across his arms and shoulders – more than anything, he looked like the body that Piccolo had seen on The Day. And this being did not seem the least bit surprised at the way Piccolo looked…  
  
He had never met anyone who did not quail at his appearance…or scream at him in shrill voices that hurt his young ears.  
  
It should have been reassuring. Instead, something in the newcomer's expression made Piccolo wonder if maybe he should break with what his sire's memories had been teaching him about pride…and run.  
  
"So, the brat thinks it's a warrior," the newcomer remarked in a shallow, baritone voice that fairly danced with amusement. The voice sounded as his sire's had, in those memories…  
  
It was definitely too good to be true.  
  
"Where did you learn that stance, boy?" he continued, tilting his head.  
  
"Who are you?" Piccolo snarled in return, automatically taking a step back to give himself room to maneuver.  
  
The older…demon?…stood unhurriedly, obviously not worried. He glanced at the shadows outside the campfire, a faint upward twist to his lips. "He looks like Daimao...has his temperament, too. I'll give you that much. But isn't he a little small?"  
  
Another voice crept from the shadows to answer – one that sounded as though it would have been right at home in the throat of a serpent. Piccolo felt the skin on the back of his neck rise in gooseflesh. "For twelve moons? Hardly."  
  
"We didn't take so long…" the first being continued loftily.  
  
"We weren't reincarnated," the voice rejoined, unflustered.  
  
The first being rolled his eyes. "As if Daimao would spend so much time in that frail little body…"  
  
"As if he would allow himself to fade completely from the world…"  
  
This seemed to take the visible speaker by surprise – his eyes widened, tinted red by the firelight. But that surprise faded quickly as he shrugged. "Whatever you say, Tambourine. It hardly matters."  
  
At this point, the previously-unseen speaker strode into the circle of firelight. He was as tall as the first, though far slighter…like a willow planted beside an oak. His gi was black, not maroon, and it hung loosely from his shoulders like the robes of a monk. His eyes were downcast as if in a show of humility…however, his tone was reproving. "Everything matters, Cymbal."  
  
"Was there a point to that, besides a chance to throw my own words back at me again?" The first being – Cymbal – snapped.  
  
"I always have a point…even when my audience is too thick for it to penetrate."  
  
Cymbal waved a hand dismissively. "Enough – you're wasting time. As usual."  
  
Piccolo, meanwhile, had been trying to place these strangers…or were they strangers at all? They seemed so familiar…but not from his memories.It must be his sire's recollection tugging at him. These were…his sons…no, his brothers.  
  
This knowledge brought the young demon no comfort at all.  
  
Just then, another rush of wind alerted him to still more new arrivals…even before Cymbal spoke.  
  
"What kept you two?" he snapped reflexively, as if he were used to reproaching whoever-it-was.  
  
Another new voice as two more beings stepped into the firelight – two demons who could, by the look of them, have been twins. If Cymbal was large, these two were immense…and Cymbal would have towered over most humans. Their shoulders must have been all of four feet wide, their arms were like the trunks of trees…Piccolo felt a distinct, nervous twitch in his gut. Gods, this just gets better and better, doesn't it?   
  
"Did you have to fly so fast?" One…Drum, Piccolo thought…complained in a husky bass. "We already know you can run us into the ground – no need to go proving' it every chance you get."  
  
Cymbal crossed his arms. His expression was amused…but to Piccolo's eyes, it seemed a dangerous kind of amusement. "You expect me to dawdle like you two oafs?"  
  
"It's not that," The other – Piano, if Piccolo's memory was serving him right, added placatingly. "It's just…well, nobody could keep up with that. That's all."  
  
At this, Cymbal's smirk grew a bit wider…a bit more frightening. "He did," he said, indicating Tambourine with a tilt of his head.  
  
"Well, yeah…" Piano said, sounding confused.  
  
"So how's this. The next time the bloody bookworm gets where we're going before you two, I'm going to personally see to it that you learn to move a little faster. Fair?"  
  
The two nodded – Piano, as if he didn't really understand the threat but knew better than to ask about it. Drum – as if he knew what had been said and resented it.  
  
And then, Cymbal turned his attention to him. Piccolo stared directly back into the eyes that reminded him so much of his father's, doing his best to project an outward appearance of calm. No emotion would be safe…but if he could manage not to show anything, there was a chance…  
  
"Now, on to you, hatchling. You obviously know something about fighting…let's see how much."  
  
Alright, so maybe there wasn't a chance.  
  
"Our first session will last for fifteen minutes," Cymbal continued, pulling an hourglass from the loose folds of his gi. "Your goal is to last against Drum, Piano, and myself for that long. Are you up to it, hatchling?"  
  
Piccolo felt his lips moving almost of their own accord, mirroring Cymbal's half-mocking expression. An idea was beginning to sprout in the back recesses of his mind… "Is three on one enough? Or do you need more help?"  
  
Cymbal's entire mannerism shifted instantaneously – from noncommittal to furious. "Are you implying that I'm afraid? Of a little halfwit like you, no less…" he hissed, eyes sparking like the sputtering fire.  
  
The youngest son of the Demon King lowered his gaze submissively. "Forgive me, brother, I didn't mean to imply that at all."  
  
"Good," Cymbal snarled, relaxing a little. "I didn't think that Daimao would have left us a suicidal...Uhn!" Without warning, the wiry young demon had leaped across the fire and delivered a high roundhouse to Cymbal's jaw. The force of the kick sent the older fighter flying. Piccolo flipped out of the maneuver, rebounding from his brother's jaw, and landed in a defensive stance. He grinned in satisfaction as Cymbal stood, spitting out blood.  
  
"I meant to say it straight out," Piccolo finished. That was going to cost him…but it had been worth it. Oh yes, it had been worth it.  
  
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Drum laughed. The sound, which was like rocks being ground together, echoed blatantly in the stagnant desert air.  
  
The elder demon turned his deadly glare to the most recent offender of his dignity. "Are you so eager to die?" he asked with frightening calm.  
  
Drum's laughter cut off abruptly, though there was obvious discontent lurking within his too-small eyes.  
  
A quiet voice broke the stillness. "The hatchling has first blood."  
  
All eyes turned to Tambourine. He was hanging back from the others, leaning causally against the sandstone wall. The muted yellow contrasted well with his skin tone, which was darker than Cymbal's, closer to Piccolo's own.  
  
"And your point?" Cymbal asked, still dangerously calm.  
  
"Only that, nothing more. It was enough if you were listening." Tambourine's eyes were closed to mere slits, his expression was unreadable.  
  
"You and your dumb word games," Piano snapped in annoyance. "One of these days, it's gonna land you in serious trouble."  
  
"Which day will that be?" Tambourine asked, one eye opening. He made no threatening move, showed no indication to attack, but the single eye that he had opened was like a well: soullessly, glitteringly empty.  
  
Piano dropped his eyes, muttering something about "next time."  
  
"Speaking of word games..." Cymbal growled, directing his attention back to Piccolo. "Now, we begin."  
  
The fight went by in a blur to the young demon. He knew, in a detached way, that he was losing; he took two blows for each one he landed, and when he did manage to connect, the blows stung his knuckles and jarred his wrists. His arm twisted painfully behind his back, a punch turned his head sideways, some kind of blow sent him flying into a cliff. He could hear the crunch of a breaking bone. He sank to his knees, tried to stand, and fell again.  
  
"Time," a low voice hissed.  
  
The other three froze. Cymbal straightened, brushing dirt from his gi. "Not bad, brat. At the very least, we've learned that you can take a great deal of punishment. Very constructive lesson, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
Piccolo shot Cymbal the most withering glare he could manage.  
  
It didn't seem to bother Cymbal – the elder demon was apparently in a far better mood. He turned his head a bit, speaking to one of the larger ones…Drum, Piccolo guessed. It was hard to tell with blood in his eyes, though.  
  
"Strange," Cymbal was saying. "He seems to have run out of one-liners."  
  
Drum said nothing, He only wiped away some of the blood that ran freely down his face; he had learned the hard way that Piccolo knew how to use his claws.  
  
"Expect us back here sometime next week. By then, you'd better be able to last twenty minutes." Ki energy flashed up around them, sudden and bright enough to blind Piccolo for several seconds. He shielded his dazzled eyes for a long moment, waiting for the stars to clear. The first thing he saw when the flashes disappeared was the fourth one, the one called Tambourine, striding up to him. Piccolo bared bloodstained teeth.  
  
"Little fool, " Tambourine hissed, smiling like a crocodile. "I'm not going to hurt you just yet."  
  
"Why...not?" Piccolo asked, looking directly into his older brother's eyes for the first time. It was disorienting, frightening – as if those eyes were thirsty and were drinking a part of him. He wanted desperately to look away and, because he wanted to, because those eyes chilled him to the bone, he held firm. He would not break the stare. He would not.  
  
Tambourine chuckled, a surprisingly ominous sound. "You'll never follow him, will you?"  
  
Piccolo fought the temptation to moisten his lips."No."  
  
"You really should, you know. Less trouble for all of us."  
  
Piccolo snarled, still not looking away. The eyes were more bearable now – the first shock had been the worst of it, like jumping into icy water. Very deep, dark, lifeless, hungry water. "He's an idiot," the demon snapped, the words splashing out onto the sand. "And arrogant. And…I hate to be repetitive, but he's a coward."  
  
"True enough," the other demon agreed. Tambourine closed his eyes. He obviously wasn't the least bit troubled by Piccolo's glare, had merely grown tired of the game. "But he's a predictable coward, and he can be useful…or used. Which depends entirely on whom you are." The eyes opened again.  
  
"Is that why you follow him?" Piccolo demanded.  
  
Tambourine's eyes grew darker. "I don't follow him, hatchling. The two of us just happen to be going in the same direction."  
  
* * *  
  
Goku watched in some concern as his "patient" growled softly. Piccolo was caught in the throes of some dream or, more likely, some nightmare. It was funny to think that someone like Piccolo could have bad dreams like anyone else. "Hey," he said softly, placing a hand on the demon's arm. "Wake up. You're dreaming."  
  
Even in sleep, Piccolo moved as if to pull away from him, his brow darkening in anger.  
  
The human withdrew his hand slowly, feeling confusion and an odd kind of sadness. How could he help someone who wouldn't have anything to do with him…or anyone else? He sighed – he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately – and rocked back on his heels, drumming his fingers on the floor of the cave. "I wish you could tell me what to do for you, Pic. I don't even know where to start."  
  
The cave was relatively cool, but crystal beads of sweat were beginning to stand out on the demon's forehead, which, Son decided, could not possibly be good. Then again, the demon had been out for what, a day and a half? That probably wasn't real healthy either. "Hey, you aren't gonna give up now, are you?" he asked, nervousness an anchor to his usually light voice. He brushed the back of his hand over Piccolo's forehead – it stood out like a dove against the darker face. Hot, Goku thought worriedly, glancing at his hand to see if it had actually been burned. Very hot.   
  
Yet another fact to add to the growing "not good" category.  
  
"I'd better do something about that," he muttered, dipping a cloth in a bowl that had been confiscated from his kitchen. Hoping fervently that Chichi wouldn't notice that the bit of pottery was gone before he could put it back, he wrung the excess moisture from the rag and placed the cloth over the demon's eyes. Piccolo seemed to relax a bit, which was the first encouraging thing that had happened so far. "Grandpa Gohan did this for me once when I was really little – you know, right after I hit my head. I don't know whether it'll help or not, but I guess it can't hurt."  
  
The human regarded the demon's injuries with a critical eye – wow, he'd done a real number on the guy. The softhearted man's oversized conscience, already made restless by his failure to check on his rival sooner, began to make a nuisance of itself. It migrated from the back of his mind to the pit of his stomach, where it lobbied admirably for more attention. Externally, Son could pick out two or three serious-looking wounds. The hole that went through Piccolo's left shoulder looked like the worst of them. If that hole had not been made by a ki blast, which had partially cauterized even as it cut, then he might very well have bled to death. From the look of it, he almost had anyway.  
  
"There's not much I can do about something like that," Goku thought aloud, one hand going behind his head, "but I think I should try to keep you from losing any more of it. I'm gonna go back home to get something to use for bandages. I think Chichi has some sheets out on the closeline – she'll never miss one, we've got lots of 'em. Of course, if she catches me, I might end up in worse shape than you are," he joked, but even to his own ears it was obviously flat. "Yeah, I guess there really isn't anything to laugh about, is there?" he said, standing slowly. Then, he left the cave, preparing to become a sheet-bandit or a convict, depending upon his wife's degree of watchfulness.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo expected the dreams to stop then… he never slept for long. Before, he had always managed to wake up before things got too bad…but not this time. The scenery seemed to dissolve around him, though the pain stayed – translating easily to another time, another memory…  
  
* * *  
  
"Brother," a voice, a familiar voice…Tambourine? "Are you ever going to get up?"  
  
Funny, wasn't it? He had just been wondering the same thing.  
  
"Or should I simply bury you?"  
  
Being buried didn't sound so bad, really – not if it meant an end to the terrible, throbbing pain that was crouching in his side, taking a swipe at his internals any time he moved.  
  
"After all, I have seen livelier corpses."  
  
He was cognizant enough to note the emphasized scorn in the voice, though it failed to raise anything remotely close to anger in his dulled mind. Go away. Just go away, leave me alone. Let me sleep.  
  
"What, so little pride as that? You should have been up and at my throat by now."  
  
Piccolo forced one of his lids to open, if only to confirm his suspicion as to who his unwelcome guest was. The whole world was an ocean filled with bleary, washed-out colors. Predominately green and purple. "Still here?" he asked, or tried to ask. His voice came out thick and bruised.  
  
"Of course. As slowly as you are moving, I fully expect to grow old and whiter like a dried date before I have occasion to leave."  
  
By then, he could see well enough. "I hate you," he said matter-of-factly, flattening out the syllables to crush any emotion that might have leaked from his still-bleeding mouth.  
  
A low chuckle. "Naturally. Now get up – I've something that I wish to show you."  
  
Piccolo started to protest but quickly thought better of it. No sense arguing with Tambourine when he was at anything less than his optimum. That would be begging for a verbal skewering. "What?" he asked instead, trying without much success to figure out exactly where his arms and legs were. He certainly couldn't feel them at the moment.  
  
Placidly, "A thing far easier shown than explained. Otherwise, I would have said that I had something to tell you."  
  
Bastard. Piccolo winced when he felt the circulation returning to his much- abused limbs – ye gods, they were made of needles – and sat up gingerly. The whole world spun for a rather interesting moment, and the youngest of the demons was forced to delay his next words for a few short breaths, during which he decided not to faint. "Alright," he grumbled. "Let's get this over with."  
  
Tambourine's thin-lipped moue of impatience transposed seamlessly into a smirk.  
  
With much swaying, the younger demon managed to gain his feet. He glanced at his brother to see if he was ready to go and, in so doing, saw himself reflected in Tambourine's otherwise empty eyes. Piccolo could see gray, nondescript mud splattered across his body, entwined with the slightest trace of deep blue. His clothing, which could only loosely be described as a gi now (and then only with apologies to other garments in that category) dangled from his battered frame like willow leaves around the trunk.  
  
Tambourine did not nod or acknowledge him in any way; he simply began walking. Piccolo growled to himself and set to stumbling after his brother, wondering how the elder demon managed to tread through such thick mud without slipping. While he was wondering, how was it that Tambourine didn't have so much as a single spatter of mud on him? Piccolo suspected a chi shield, although he wasn't about to ask.  
  
It began to rain.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo was soaked to the skin. Beads of rainwater scurried down his drooping antennae, plummeting from the tips to burst on his nose or trickle into the clashing white of his eyes. He shook his head occasionally to clear the water from his elvish ears – not that there was anything to hear but the steady sloshing of their footsteps.  
  
He had long since stopped wondering where they were going.  
  
Keeping up with his much taller brother had been a challenge from the beginning. The elder demon strode through muck that came up to Piccolo's knees with no apparent difficulty, while his counterpart was forced to flounder along in his wake. Piccolo no longer studied their route, but was instead content to fasten his eyes firmly on his brother's feet. As the rain increased, he ceased even to follow his brother. He was plodding behind a specter that never tired, a grayish spirit veiled by sheet upon sheet of water.  
  
He didn't even notice that the specter had stopped until he crashed into the backs of Tambourine's legs.  
  
The elder demon glanced over his shoulder, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering, then dying in his midnight eyes. "We're here," he announced, a wry smile alighting for a brief moment on his face.  
  
Piccolo looked up obligingly. Charcoal skeletons of houses rose as if to puncture the clouds with their jagged, wicked looking edges. Spirals of oily smoke rose from here and there like carrion crows that were spreading unnaturally long wings. Incredibly, embers still glowed in defiance of the rain, casting a reddish sheen over the wet remains of the village. "Did you do this?" Piccolo asked, a trace of reluctant awe festering in his voice.  
  
"I? No."  
  
"Then why bring me here?" Piccolo looked up at his brother and, for the space of a heartbeat, he was only a curious child – the killer he was meant to be was all but gone from his widened eyes.  
  
Tambourine smiled absently, his own eyes still drinking deeply of the sprawling destruction before them. Whether or not they found the draught bitter was impossible to tell. "Because you have questions."  
  
"I. . .what?" How did he know?!  
  
"About humans," the elder demon continued coolly. "You are not Daimao's reincarnation, in spite of what I told Cymbal. That simple-minded fool will never understand the difference anyway," he finished, half under his breath. Then, more loudly, "Oh, I've no doubt that he bequeathed you his memories, perhaps even a few of his more. . . interesting skills, but understanding is not a gift to be given." Tambourine shrugged. "Knowledge without understanding is useless. He as much as gave you a locked chest, but not the key."  
  
Piccolo swallowed once, managing not to make it sound like a gulp.  
  
"He knew," Tambourine added, perhaps sensing his brother's unspoken question. "He was many things, youngling, but not stupid. Now, come."  
  
The two of them wove between once-buildings like worms through a decaying apple. Bodies, many horribly mutilated, lay in the street, scraggly hair and rigid limbs all intertwined, colors muted by mud, accented with edges of red. Men, women, even the occasional child, Tambourine stepped over them all indiscriminately, his aloof expression never slipping. Piccolo, after one glance at the grotesquely twisted visage of what had once been a terrified young man, kept his eyes firmly on the back of his brother's gi, trying to ignore the clenching feeling in his stomach. He pointedly did not think.  
  
He just as pointedly did not inhale through his nose. One whiff of charcoal, mixed with the sickening (if surreally familiar, alluring) smells of burned hair and singed flesh, had set off a tempest of reactions that he was not prepared to face. It was disgusting. . .nauseating, even. . . but so very, very intense. . . horrifying, but. . . so beautiful. . .  
  
Quailing inside, he squashed that thought. Beautiful? THIS?! In spite of his better judgement, he glanced down at the road, at the tangle of spent humanity beneath him. For some reason that he did not understand, his chest hurt. He averted his eyes quickly, unsure if he wanted more to laugh out loud, to huddle in a corner, or to run from this place as far and as fast as his legs would carry him.  
  
He didn't realize until they had threaded through several streets that Tambourine was looking for something. His impassive gaze was covering ground more quickly than they were, prying into every crack with detached intensity. "Come now, surely there must be one, at least," he muttered every now and then.  
  
The sound of water splattering onto the gorged earth was beginning to unnerve the young demon. It sounded too much like – no, don't think about that. "If you didn't do this," he asked softly, "then who did?"  
  
"They did it to themselves," his brother answered absently.  
  
"WHAT?" Piccolo barely kept from wincing at the volume of his own voice. Tambourine rounded on him sharply, and somehow the grim amusement on his elder's face rubbed him the wrong way. "That's ridiculous. Why would anyone do this," a sweeping gesture to indicate the graveyard that had once been a bustling dirt road, "to himself? Aren't humans supposed to value family?"  
  
Tambourine actually laughed. Piccolo had never heard his laugh before, and he fervently hoped that he would not hear it again. It was an awful sound, a harsh, rattling noise that rebounded from every battered building. Piccolo squared his shoulders, drawing up to his full height (all four feet of it) and glaring at his brother with all the fury he could bluster. He thought that he did a fairly clean job of disguising the internal quaking set off by that laughter.  
  
The elder demon cut off the sound of his mirth abruptly, tilting his head to one side, birdlike. "A human values his own family," he corrected casually. "Which does not mean that he holds anyone else's in particular regard. What happened here is nothing unusual."  
  
"What was it?"  
  
Tambourine shrugged again. "I really don't know. They have many names for the same thing. Suffice it to say that someone wanted what someone else already had. It may have been a different town, believing that this one had better land for crops. It may simply have been a riot, perhaps a religious disagreement. In any event, I doubt that much will be growing here now." The demon crouched, somehow making the movement graceful, and lowered a finger to the ground. He drew it back with a drop of what was obviously human blood darkening the tip. "Salt," he said simply.  
  
Piccolo shook his head. "If what you say is true, then these people are insane."  
  
A slow smirk spread across his brother's face, but it was quickly banished as he stood. He closed his eyes as if listening very closely for a barely audible sound – but Piccolo could hear nothing, and he knew that his ears were every bit as sharp as his brother's. In his father's memories, he'd found reference to chi sensing…perhaps that was what his brother was doing. Piccolo made a mental note to learn that as quickly as possible.  
  
Tambourine's dead eyes opened with alarming suddenness. "Ah! I knew there had to be one."  
  
"One what?" Piccolo snarled, nearing the end of his endurance.  
  
A wink. "You'll have to come find out." They were off again, but much faster. Tambourine's long strides ate ground, and Piccolo was forced to nearly jog to keep up – an activity that every part of his young body protested in its own way. They turned several sharp turns in succession, and Piccolo was just admitting to himself that he wasn't quite sure whether or not they were going around in circles…when they stopped.  
  
Or rather, Tambourine stopped. Piccolo skidded, nearly falling in the slippery footing. "Here," the elder demon announced flatly. Piccolo raised his eyes hesitantly, half-afraid to do so. He didn't think that he could deal with any more surprises.  
  
A little girl – she couldn't have been more than six – was kneeling in the remnants of what had once been a house. Her mud-streaked face was buried in equally grimy hands, her nightgown – once dove white - was blotched with crimson, brown, and ebony. Hair, raven black, tumbled in a damp cascade down her back, clinging to her like a ragged shawl. She was rocking back and forth, wracked with silent sobs, heedless of the rain. A more perfect picture of misery Piccolo could never have designed.  
  
He needed not to be told where her parents were. If he looked carefully enough, he was confident that he would find them in the blanket of corpses lining the town.  
  
"This," Tambourine began, his tone that of a lecturing professor, "is a human. Their lives are painfully short and unfulfilling, but they cling to them all the same."  
  
The little girl looked up, the dark, gaping holes beneath her bangs reflecting sudden, desperate hope coupled with fear. "Help me! Please, Mommy was in the kitchen."  
  
Now that Piccolo looked, he could see that a massive section of the roof had come down on a portion of the bottom floor. A corner of red seeped out from beneath the beams. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was going to be sick. "We aren't. . . going to leave it here, are we?" he asked, subdued.  
  
"Of course not," Tambourine hissed darkly. "What kind of monster do you take me for?"  
  
Piccolo barely checked a sigh of relief. He didn't know why – perhaps because he had seen a touch of himself in her frantic, desperate eyes.  
  
"Come here, little girl," the elder demon called, his voice almost kind. "I believe we can help you."  
  
The child stood, tear-streaked face shining with obvious trust. She took several quick, halting steps toward the two of them. Tambourine extended a hand, palm up, expression blank. Eagerly, the girl reached toward it with chubby, muddy fingers.  
  
The red beam that shot from the green talons was too fast for her eyes, although Piccolo could see it easily enough. The small, thin chi blast went cleanly through her forehead, and she crumpled like a melting snowflake at the demons' feet. "Far kinder this way," Tambourine noted detachedly. "No point in letting it suffer."  
  
Piccolo bit down hard on his cheek, barely checking a cry of outright shock. He had seen the corpses in the street, but this was somehow different. The little human had been alive not so long ago. . .walking, thinking, feeling. . .  
  
Hurting. . .  
  
"It hurts no longer," the elder continued, and if Piccolo had not been so distracted, he would have wondered at the way Tambourine always seemed to guess his mind. "I have done it a service. Do you disagree?"  
  
Looking down at the form sprawled in the mire, one rebellious lock of hair still dancing in the wind, face still aglow with trust and joy, he involuntarily memorized every detail. How wonderfully the pallor of her cheeks accented the cherry red streaming down her forehead. The way her eyes were no darker or more restive than they had been when someone used them to look out of.  
  
"Let us take this opportunity to study death."  
  
The way her narrow chest no longer lifted.  
  
"No two things are born equal – but good, evil, right, wrong, all become as one in death. Could you tell which of those bodies back there belonged to a "good" person? Which were the liars? The saints? No. No one can."  
  
The way the water around her face was not disturbed because no air exited her nose or mouth.  
  
"A beautiful concept, is it not?"  
  
Piccolo cringed visibly, unprepared for the return of his thoughts, less ready for the part of him that voiced its assent.  
  
A hand rested briefly on his shoulder, but he did not look up. "You are overwhelmed, no doubt. I. . . had not intended this. I merely wished to see how much of him had. . . well, never mind." Piccolo blinked numbly. Had that been an apology? He looked up at his brother and saw, or thought he saw, a glimmer of understanding struggling within those soulless eyes, but it was too quickly gone. They were like dead seas – nothing could live there for long. "I will leave you to mull this over."  
  
His brother flew away.  
  
When he was certain that Tambourine was gone, Piccolo fell to his knees – he hadn't the control to kneel properly – beside the girl. He reached forth a trembling hand, brushing it against her arm. Still warm. He could still see the hot, pinkish glow of her aura, shimmering around her like a butterfly hovering over its cocoon.  
  
He crouched there with her until long after the body had grown cold.  
  
And once she had, he merely closed his eyes, bowed his head. Oddly, in his mind's eye he could see … or thought he could see…A lithe, angular form was perched lightly on one of the turrets of the old stone fortress, long legs dangling over the battlements. It looked like Tambourine… And he could hear thoughts… Mission status: accomplished, the figure was thinking, the faintest trace of satisfaction writing itself in the lines around his mouth.  
  
He is no Daimao. 


	3. The pieces come together

Piccolo's eyes opened – to pitch-blackness. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, count to ten, wait to see a light. His eyes would adjust in a moment, and he'd be able to see. 

Except that his eyes weren't adjusting. 

He felt panic worming its way into his thoughts…had he gone blind? Perhaps it was merely a very dark night…but no, he could feel weight on his face. A very wet weight. He turned his head slightly, and the cloth – for he could see now that that was what it had been – slopped off. 

How had that gotten there? 

He could make nothing out distinctly…just watery gray on gray on black…was he still dreaming? With an effort, he flexed a hand, closed it. He could move – that was usually a good sign. 

Where was he? 

He closed his eyes again, trying to think through the pounding in his skull, past the horribly dry feeling in his mouth. Last he remembered, he was in the skeleton of a town…no, that wasn't right. That was years ago. The last time his eyes had been open, he remembered…falling, and…sand, and…blood everywhere, and… 

Why was he still alive? Or was he? He forced his lids open again – they were unaccountably heavy – and did his best to focus. For just a moment, he had a sharp, clear view of a stone ceiling; then, the edges went loose again, and the shapes started running into one another. At least he had some idea where he was now: a cave. He'd seen enough of those over the years. 

But how had he gotten there? Could he have somehow dragged himself into one and not remembered? No. He dismissed that thought immediately. He had been – and, most likely, still was – beyond moving. Someone must have done it for him. 

Phe…that was nearly as ridiculous as assuming that he had made it himself. What kind of idiot would do something like that? Didn't they realize what he was?

More importantly…were they still around? 

The thought of anyone, weak human or no, seeing him like this was profoundly disturbing. He turned his head to the side…he could make out a pair of boot prints in the sand beside him, blurring in and out of focus.

That excluded any of his brothers…they all wore soft, treadless constructions on their feet as he did, more like moccasins than anything else. And last he'd checked, he'd been in the middle of nowhere. No one should have found him unless they'd been looking for him. More nonsense. His brothers wouldn't waste the effort, and the only other person who knew he was there was… 

No. No, surely not. But then his eyes found the cloth that had been over his eyes, which had fluttered down beside the bootprints. It lay there like a signature. Orange cloth. 

It was him, it had to be. 

Immediately, Piccolo closed his eyes, straining his ears. No breathing other than his own. No other heartbeats. Wherever Son was, he wasn't in the cave. Piccolo had absolutely no idea how long the man would be gone – perhaps he had only stepped out for a moment. But Piccolo had no intention of being there when he came back. 

With a low moan that he was glad no one else was around to hear, he rolled onto his side, then facedown. Slowly, slowly, he moved his hands into pushup position and straightened his arms. They shook as if he were trying to hold up the entire world. He glared at them, but they did not seem the least bit intimidated – they shook harder than ever. At least, he decided, they were holding him. That would be enough. 

He had thought that the worst was over until he tried to move his legs. The minute he tried to draw them under himself, his arms seemed to think that their end of the task was over; they folded beneath him like damp paper. Piccolo spent a moment just lying there, thinking of nothing, drinking in air. He couldn't seem to get enough of it – he felt as if he'd been running for days. Then, grinding his teeth together, he tried again. This time, he managed to get to his knees. There, he paused, waiting futilely for his head to stop spinning. 

__

Come on…won't give up, not…not now. 

He put a hand against the wall, hoping against hope for handholds. His fingers encountered only smooth sandstone – not much help, but better than nothing. With a growl that seemed to come from the very core of his being, he straightened his legs, leaning against the wall like a child who was first learning to walk. It hurt. Oh yes, it hurt. But he was up.

_You can do this…you have to do this…_

Steeling his resolve, he transferred his weight from the wall to his own legs, ounce by ounce. He was standing. And he was leaving…if he could only see straight…

The wave of vertigo that hit him then was nothing short of incredible. He didn't even have time to sway before he collapsed…but he didn't fall very far. He had landed against something…something that was holding him up…something blurry and orange and saying, "Woah, you're worse about being sick than I am…I've at least got enough sense to wait 'till I can walk…" 

Piccolo closed his eyes. He felt like a coward, but whatever was going to happen next, he didn't want to see it. "You," he growled, aware someplace in the back of his mind that he sounded at least as miserable as he felt. "Why can't you…just kill me and be done with it?" 

"What'd I wanna do that for?" The human asked, his words heavy with surprise. 

The demon knew that there were reasons, all sorts of reasons, for this being to want him dead, but thinking was becoming more and more like wading through muddy water.

__

No, idiot, focus! Pull yourself together! 

To Piccolo's credit, he tried. He reached deep down inside himself, deeper than he'd ever gone before, but there was simply nothing left to draw upon. He was spent, completely…it had taken the last of his reserves to get as far as he had. 

Hands, light on his back, transferring his weight. "On the bright side, you're awake…right? Piccolo? Can you hear me?" 

At least, Piccolo was fairly sure that was what he said…he was having a great deal of difficulty separating one word from another, for some strange reason…the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back again, with the dim figure leaning over him. Bleary eyes or no, Piccolo could easily make out concern on those indistinct features. "Pic, say something, alright? Anything?"

"Anything," the demon repeated dazedly. Wasn't that what this odd person had asked him to say? Who _was _that person, anyway? He had the feeling that he should remember…

"Hooo boy, you're really out of it, aren't you?" 

_Out of what? _Piccolo wondered – but it wasn't worth the energy it would take to ask. He saw a hand coming down and flinched involuntarily, closing his eyes, gripped by a sudden fear that he couldn't understand. He didn't even think to question why he was pulling back; something told him that he should.

"Relax…I'm not going to hurt you." He felt fingers brush his forehead, heard a low whistle from…whoever was beside him. "Still got it, huh? Feels better, though."

Sounds of something sloshing in water – something cold draped over his eyes. "Try to keep it on this time, okay?" He couldn't see again, but it didn't seem to matter. With or without that thing on his eyes, everything was too blurry to make out…

Something damp at his lips…felt …cold… "You should really drink some water…it'll help, I think." 

A part of him – most likely some small vestige of his mind that was keeping track of what was going on and not liking it one bit – demanded that he refuse. Told him he would be better off dead. But, despite that strange feeling of foreboding, the rest of him was simply tired beyond all endurance. So he drank, more from instinct than from actual decision. 

He heard a relieved sigh, and the other resumed talking to him in a low, jumbled murmur that seemed to ebb and flow like the tides. It came to him wordless, most likely because he couldn't seem to concentrate on separating syllables. He didn't really care what this strange person was saying, anyway. Only that he was there. 

It was strange, he decided, to hear something other than the wind when he was drifting in and out of wakefulness. A part of him resented it. Hated knowing he was being watched. And yet…there was something almost soothing about that droning sound. 

Thinking thusly, he slipped back into sleep…sleep that was mercifully without dreams. 

* * *

The feeling that greeted Piccolo when next he woke was one that any drunk would be familiar with. It was the feeling that he had done something monumentally stupid, something that he would no doubt regret, just as soon as he could remember what it was. He hurt. He knew that immediately. He hurt practically everywhere. Something had happened. Something big…yes, a fight…worse than the usual.

He had a vague memory of waking up once before, and…

With a snarl, he reached up to his face with one hand, snatching a fistful of damp cloth and peeling it from his eyes. He sat up slowly, staring at the fabric twined around his fingers with outright animosity. Impossible. It was impossible. What had happened…could not have happened.

Bits and pieces were coming back to him, though, and he could not deny them. He realized that his hand was shaking again – but this time, rage had more to do with it than anything else. 

_How…how dare he just…_

"Hey, Piccolo. Feel any better?" 

Millimeter by millimeter, the demon turned his head so that he was looking at his rival. Son Goku was crouched a little more than an arm's length away – from the look of him, he had not slept. His hair was more disheveled than normal; it resembled some live animal that had decided to perch on his head. His eyes were bloodshot. His grin was even subdued. 

Piccolo glanced down at himself, briefly. He tried not to think about what he saw…and what it meant. 

Son Goku apparently noticed, because he spoke in a voice that was brimming with hesitance, "I…uh…went ahead and cleaned your wounds for you. I hope you don't mind, but…" 

"Why," Piccolo hissed, fastening his eyes on the human. 

Goku blinked. "Because I was afraid you were gonna die or something, and…" 

"No," the demon interrupted harshly. He was having a very hard time deciding whether he was more humiliated, angry, or confused – he opted for angry. He could forget the other two for a time, if only he could be angry enough. "Not that. Why can't you just leave me alone?" 

__

The other warrior looked at him owlishly. "I…what?" 

A growl tore free of Piccolo's throat before he could stop it. "Idiotic human…you'd won. It was over. But you couldn't let it end as it should have. At least," he continued, his voice little more than a crescendoing growl, "you could tell me why." 

Son shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? I just…didn't want you to die, that's all." 

Piccolo stared at him for perhaps a minute before he spoke again. "You…didn't want me to die." 

The human nodded…then, apparently thinking better of it, shook his head. "No." 

The demon felt snarl lines furrowing the bridge of his nose. "And you expect me to believe that you s…that you did what you did simply because you wanted to keep me alive. Nothing beyond that?" 

Son grinned again. "Hai, that's right. I knew you'd understand. You just needed a little time, that's all, and…"

Piccolo wondered briefly if he was dreaming again – this was definitely strange enough to be a dream… "You're right – I do **not** understand," he hissed. "And I don't wish to." 

Son stopped in mid-stream, tilting his head. "Why not?" 

"Because you're…" Picolo trailed off, shook his head. "Gods, you're impossible." 

"I just want to help you, you know," the man remarked earnestly. 

Without another thought, Piccolo flung the rag at his rival. Son caught it easily, his brow practically doubling over in bemusement. 

"That is **exactly** what I don't need: your help," he snapped. 

To add insult to…well, everything else…the human actually looked hurt. 

Piccolo pointedly looked away. He had a fair idea as to what was going to happen sooner or later. Son had to want something from him, be it information or merely the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. Surreptitiously, the demon reached inside himself and found…nothing. Still nothing. His chi had been thoroughly depleted…it would be days, maybe a week, before he could fight again. That wasn't even taking into account the fact that he felt as though his whole body was laced with needles - he felt a sharp pain every time he drew a breath. That meant broken ribs. He didn't even like to think about his shoulder…

What that all amounted to was that he couldn't even fight back. At least, not effectively…but Enma Daio take him if he didn't make that blasted human work for whatever he got. "I've had enough of your pleasantries, human," he said, spitting out the last word as if it were the worst insult he could think of. "Why don't you just do whatever it is that you came here to do?" 

"Kami-sama! I've met some difficult people before, but you…" Son, obviously having exhausted his limited vocabulary, gestured expansively. "Why can't you just accept that maybe the whole world isn't out to get you?" 

"Isn't it?" Piccolo shot back, feeling bitterness rise like bile in the back of his mouth. 

"No! I mean, I'm not, and…" 

"Fine," Piccolo snapped, still glaring at the wall as if it were somehow responsible for his problems. "Let's suspend reality for a second or two and say that I believed that you **_aren't _**my enemy. That would mean you and who else?"

"Alright. Me, and…and…" he trailed off. Piccolo could well imagine the look on his face – he could hear it in his voice. 

"My point exactly," the demon stated, pounding out every word as if on an anvil. "Just you, if I believed you…and you're lying. So you may as well tell me what you really want."

* * *

Goku stared at the demon's back for perhaps a minute before he could think of anything else to say. "Piccolo," he began at last, "there has to be something I can do to help you – some way I can make you believe me." 

Another low growl from Piccolo's direction. Then, in an amused half-whisper, "The only way you could do that would be to let me go." 

"Let you go?" The human asked, feeling a little lost. Then, like a light bulb coming on, understanding hit. "You think you're a prisoner?" 

Silence. 

Son grinned – this wasn't going to be so hard after all. "Okay, sure. You can leave if you want." 

"…repeat that." 

"I…um…said you're free to go." Son watched the demon's back carefully, seeking any sign as to what he was thinking. His lone clue was that Piccolo's hands had clenched into fists. Still, he couldn't help smiling slightly at the fact that Piccolo had almost spoken civilly to him. True, only two words, but hey, progress was progress. And admittedly, he hadn't said anything else yet. Goku opted to continue cheerfully, "Any time you want to go, you can walk right out of here. I won't stop you." 

The demon's head turned slowly, and Son found himself staring into a pair of polished garnet eyes. Eyes that held something that he couldn't quite identify. "I don't believe you." Funny, the demon didn't sound incredulous. He sounded more disgusted than anything else. 

Still grinning, Son stood up. He could see the demon's muscles tense, as if he were trying to keep from flinching, but Son said nothing about it. Taking a step back, he gestured toward the cave entrance. "No, I mean it! Go ahead." 

The demon smirked, but it was not the same expression that he had worn during their fight. This one was wry and self-mocking. "Oh, that's funny, human. You're a riot." 

Goku blinked. He didn't remember making a joke. "What's funny?" 

Piccolo's only answer was to glare at him with smoldering eyes. 

Lacking any other option, the man began thinking. What had he said that was so…well, Piccolo had said 'funny,' but the way that he was looking at him then didn't seem amused. He had just said that the demon could walk right out if he…could…walk. Which he probably couldn't. Wonderful. 

Son fought the urge to slap his forehead. _Kami's right – my foot and my mouth are a perfect fit. He thinks I'm taunting him or baiting him or something…geesh, who am I kidding? I don't know how to talk to someone like him…_

But he needed help. And there was simply no one else to do it. 

Son had the distinct impression that it was going to be a very long few days. 


	4. But they're still just flint and steel

Goku lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the new, quiet house that had been his home for less than a week. It was dark; the curtains had been pulled, the lights snuffed. His weary eyes could not distinguish outlines – all he could see was layer upon layer of black, muted shapes – it reminded him, quite disconcertingly, of a certain pair of eyes.

He had come home in hopes of getting some rest now that he was assured that Piccolo wouldn't die any time soon. He'd been unfathomably relieved when the demon's fever finally broke – the previous two days had been the most wearing experience in his short life. He had not realized **_how_** wearing, in fact, until he had cleaned out the refrigerator and taken a long bath.

It was good, he decided, to get back to normalcy. Good to be able to forget about what had been going on lately. Good to take a step back from the strange urgency he felt where Piccolo was concerned…this weird feeling that he **owed** it to his rival to help him, for whatever weird reason. 

And now, Goku could finally recover – if only he could sleep. 

His sudden insomnia wasn't from lack of exhaustion – his whole body cried out for rest. His head felt entirely too heavy for his neck to support, and his legs ached from crouching so long in that cave. Even his eyelids felt weighted – they drooped over his eyes like lead curtains. The problem, of course, was his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to stop his inner wheels from turning…and they always seemed to be revolving around a certain demon.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, Son turned onto his side. Chichi was sleeping beside him – he could barely make her out, but all the same, he knew she was there. It was oddly reassuring: knowing that she was with him, hearing her breathe, feeling the weight of her body on the mattress next to him. He felt a slight smile pulling at his lips, wondered briefly if his presence affect her the same way. He didn't think to ask – that wasn't the sort of thing he could put into words. 

But even that warm, comforting feeling – whatever it was – wasn't enough to draw the back of his mind out of a cave somewhere in the desert. 

His brow creasing like folded paper, Son flopped back onto his back. _What've I gotten myself into this time? _He wondered, putting a hand over his eyes. 

Admittedly, he hadn't known what to expect when he started tending to his mortal enemy; in truth, he hadn't really thought much beyond keeping the demon alive. Actually **dealing** with Piccolo – that, he hadn't anticipated. And gods, it wasn't easy. 

"I didn't think it would take so _long,_" he whispered – he didn't want to wake Chichi up, but he'd always thought better aloud. It made his thoughts seem much closer, instead of loose and unconnected like they were in his mind. Whenever he thought entirely in his head, the things he was trying to grasp floated around like balloons – he needed words to hold them down. "I mean, lots of us started out as enemies: Yamcha, Krillen, Tien…but they all came around pretty fast. It was always just a misunderstanding, and as soon as we got that cleared up…"

Son sighed again, putting both hands behind his head. Sleeping would be impossible as long as these lose thoughts were rattling popcorn-style in his brain – so, with his usual fortitude, he set to sorting them out. "Except…it's not the same, with him and me. There isn't anything not to understand – everything's pretty cut and dried. Yeah, I killed his father…but his father was trying to kill me. And judging from how he acted around Cymbal, he probably wouldn't care anyway."

"Hey, come to think of it…that's pretty strange. He hates his whole family, but he gets really mad at me because I killed one of them. That doesn't make sense. If he was Daimao again, it'd be a different story…but he isn't." 

Goku's eyes narrowed uncharacteristically. "Man, I just don't get this. He knows I don't want to hurt **_him_**, doesn't he?" 

Maybe not. The man found himself reviewing the past two days, seeking something that would cast a bit more light on the emotional knot he was trying to untangle. He thought back to yesterday, when he'd been speaking to the demon about the very subject of hurting… 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Mind if I change the dressing on your shoulder?" Son asked, as much to shatter the stifling silence that weighed between them as to get permission. 

Piccolo snorted and looked away. "Do what you want," he snapped, his tone as bitter as strong tea. "I can't stop you." 

Not exactly the response that Son had been hoping for, but it was a start. He set about unwrapping the binding slowly, carefully…he was well aware of how much it must hurt…

And doubly so when he saw the wound. Unlike the others, this one was not much improved…

"Stay here. I'll be right back, okay?" 

A wry chuckle from Piccolo was his only answer. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, he found the plant he was looking for growing in a little clump right outside the cave door. The large, arrow-shaped leaves waved at him as if to catch his attention – he could not very well have missed them. 

"Hello," he said softly. "I didn't think you grew out here." He glanced around at the sand, squinting against the sun, which set the dunes to weaving like fields of wheat. " 'Course, I don't know how much of anything can grow out here." 

Carefully, he plucked a leaf or two, wrinkling his nose against the acrid smell, which was sharp enough to burn in his nostrils. "Okay…here goes nothing," he muttered. And then he trudged back into the cave like a man about to face a firing squad. 

Piccolo had not moved, although he did turn to look. His expression was blank; Son could read nothing at all from it. He experienced a wave of frustration. True, the demon's earlier show of emotion had been disturbing, but at least it had offered some sort of window, some way to see what he was thinking, what he needed. This strange calm that Piccolo had adopted in the moments since, though…it was far more disturbing. Unnatural, even. 

Son sat and began dragging a bit of wood across the first leaf, drawing out the pulp. He did not look up from his work – he was fairly sure that Piccolo was watching him, and if he looked up, his rival would look away. 

Then, he realized that he was finished – there was a thin, oozy layer of clear muck on top of the leaf. _Great. Here comes the hard part…_

"Um," Son began, not really sure how to start, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the leaf. "This is gonna hurt. A lot." 

He heard Piccolo snort. "I hope you didn't expect me to be surprised."

Son closed his eyes, counted to ten. "It's not like I **_want _**to hurt you, you know." 

A low, sarcastic chuckle. "No, of course not." 

"Fine, whatever…just…hold still a minute, alright?" 

"Naw. I think I feel like hopping up and running the 50 K…"

Goku was never quite sure later whether his exhaustion or Piccolo's calculated sarcasm had been responsible, but just then he experienced a brief but gratifying vision of cramming the leaf down his rival's throat. Hurriedly, he squashed it under a mental boot – gods, what was the matter with him? "Ya know, if you wouldn't doubt every single thing I do, this'd be a lot easier for both of us."

"And since when do I try to make life easier for **_you_**?" 

_:Okay, Goku. Stay calm. He's just trying to get you to lose your temper, that's all…: _"There's a first time for everything," he said with a shrug. And then, before his unwilling patient could think of a rejoinder, he pressed the leaf against the shoulder wound. 

Immediately, he heard a sharp hiss from Piccolo. The demon did not cry out, but his eyes had closed, and his muscles had snapped so tight that Goku figured he could probably have bounced a brick off of them. Much to his relief, his rival's obvious pain didn't cause him any satisfaction. "Hai, I know…it'll be over soon," he said, rocking back. "That's the good thing about it. It doesn't hurt long." 

If looks could kill, Son decided, he would be a little ash pile on the floor with a crown of singed hair.

Son Goku sighed yet again – all this thinking wasn't helping. He was more confused than ever, and still no closer to getting any sleep. With a weariness as foreign to him as a goofy grin would have been to Piccolo, he swung his legs over so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, grateful that his wife was a heavy sleeper. 

He had to face it. He was at the end of his rope – and that rope had become so frayed and strained that it seemed more like a bit of fishing line to him than rope at all. 

And he had no idea what to do about it. He continued to sit, the very picture of frustrated despondence. That picture was painted in a variety of media: his drooping hair, his lowered head, his tightened jaw. "What am I doing wrong?" he muttered, putting a hand to his temple.

His only answer was a crack of light from through the window, sticking long fingers into his tired eyes…the sun was rising. Goku turned around slowly, staring at the intrusion of light into the dark room, a faint, ironic smile on his face. "Heh. Guess I just wasn't meant to sleep tonight, either." 

He stood, stretched, and tiptoed out of the room, his tail weaving cautiously behind him. Once he reached the hallway, he resumed his normal, rocking stride – although he rubbed absently at his eyes with his sleeve once or twice. Finally, he made it outside. 

Goku spent a moment just staring. It was driven home to him again what a beautiful place the world was. The sky stretched above him like a seamless pane of blue glass; the grass shivered with dew. Somewhere, a bird trilled experimentally. 

"Hey, Goku!" 

Son knew that voice. With a grin, he looked up at his best friend of half a lifetime: Krillen. "Hey. What're you doing all the way out here?" he asked of the former monk, who was still hovering a few feet in the air, orange standing out like a second sun against the sky. 

"I need a sparring partner, bud. And lucky you, you're elected!" 

Goku laughed. Krillen had changed in a lot of ways – but his weird sense of humor wasn't one of them. "Sorry, Krillen. I don't know if I can come today. We'll set something up soon, okay?" 

Krillen nodded, shooting him a conspirital look. "The wife, right?" he asked, continuing before Goku had time to reply. "Well look, why didn't you say so? Next time you can sneak out, come on over to the Kame house and we'll spar then." 

Goku blinked. As usual, he was a bit taken aback by how fast the conversation was moving. But then, he'd always had a hard time following his fast-talking friend's line of thought. "Um, sure. I'll do that." 

"Great. Hey, you haven't seen any of those demons lately, have you? I haven't seen a single one since the tournament – guess they're laying low. Don't blame 'em after the beating you gave 'em. I guess that other one – wassisname, Piccolo? – musta died. I get the feeling he would've come after you by now if he was still alive."

For once, Goku was glad that Krillen talked so fast. It meant he didn't have to answer very many questions. 

"Man," he continued, "I know how you feel about killing people and that kinda stuff, but I'm pretty glad we don't have to worry about that one anymore." Here, Krillen's face grew clouded; Son guessed that the monk was remembering his brief fight with Piccolo in the qualifiers…a **_very_** brief fight that the diminutive warrior had needed two full senzous to recover from. 

"Heh," Goku replied, putting one hand behind his head. "Maybe you're right, but…"

Krillen actually snorted. "But nothing, Goku. That guy was dangerous. Worse than the others. At least with them, you know what they're thinking. 'Cept for that snaky one, but he doesn't fight. Or if he has, I've never seen him." 

At this, Goku's brow drew into a wavy, worried line, but he said nothing. 

"Anybody who can get an arm blown off and just laugh about it has something wrong with him, though. Even you've gotta admit that." 

Goku nodded once. Sure, he'd agree. There **_was_** something wrong with Piccolo…something **_really _**wrong. But whatever it was could be fixed, right? If he just had a chance, he'd change, wouldn't he? Wouldn't anybody? Why would anyone be evil if he knew better? He could bring Piccolo around, he was sure of it. 

Wasn't he? 

"Anyway, it's been great talking to ya, Goku. Don't stay away too long, okay?" 

Goku grinned. "Sure thing, Krillen. See ya soon." 

As he watched the little warrior disappear into the layers of blue and white that made up the sky, he felt his heart double in weight. Krillen was so confident that he knew…what if he was right? Goku bit his lip. How could he know that he was doing the right thing, helping a self-proclaimed demon to live? Would he know whether or not he was sentencing thousands more people to death **_before _**the rightness of his decision was put to the test? Or only after he counted the headstones?

_:Stop it,: _he told himself firmly. _:If it was you in that cave, wouldn't you want another chance?: _

Speaking of caves, he **_had _**left Piccolo out there all night. Checking on him might be a very good idea. He started to leave, but paused with one foot still in the air. He was forgetting something. Something very important. With a quick spin, he re-entered the kitchen and scrawled a quick message on a napkin. 

Chichi, 

Gone to spar. Be back soon. 

Goku

And he was off. 

He paused for a minute to collect himself before going through the rocky opening. He was putting on his emotional band-aides, getting ready to put up with insult after insult. It wasn't easy, he decided, being the good guy. 

He strode in purposefully, his tail curled loosely around his waist. The darkness was dazzling after the brightness of sun on stand – he spent a moment blinking, waiting for his eyes to…

A hand clamped down on his tail. Hard. Before that realization could make its way through the fog of agony that had descended on his brain, he felt his knees give out, felt a brief cry exit his throat, and then he was being restrained from behind by a forearm across his throat. He could feel that he was being held against someone – someone much larger than he was – oh, great. 

"Good morning," A low voice rumbled with mock-politeness. The arm around his throat tightened ever so slightly. Not enough to cut off his air completely, but enough to make the threat of that apparent. 

The human swallowed nervously. On the bright side, the voice belonged to Piccolo, not one of the others. Or was that such a good thing after all? "Um, hi. I guess you're feeling better," he said, hoping to buy a little time. 

A brief, dry chuckle. "Better than you're going to be." The demon's grip on his tail loosened enough that he could almost see straight. Then, quietly, "I'd wondered if there was a reason you always keep this so close to you." 

"Ya know something, Piccolo…I get the feeling you're still mad about that leaf thing," Goku managed to choke out. He wasn't sure if he felt more like smacking himself for being such an idiot as to get into this situation, or more like laughing at how quickly their positions had turned upside down and inside out. 

Piccolo growled. It was a truly disconcerting sound this close – like a small earthquake behind him. "I've had enough of your talk, human. More than enough." 

Goku's mind was thrashing around like a cat in a well, searching for some way, any way, out of this mess. Long as Piccolo had his tail, he wasn't going anywhere… "Okay, fine. But I really wish you'd take a minute to think about this." 

He could very clearly hear the sneer in the demon's voice. "There's nothing to think about."

"Sure there is," Goku continued. _Keep him talking, just keep him talking… _

This time, the demon's voice was faintly tinged with amusement. "Like whether I want to put this blast through your empty head or through your heart?" 

"Like that you don't really want to kill me at all." Son closed his eyes and prayed. Prayed that one of these shots in the dark would strike home. 

Piccolo's next words were low – almost a purr. "Oh, but I do." 

"I don't think so. Otherwise, you wouldn't be wasting all this time talking to me."

Oh, that one hit. That one hit hard. And so did Piccolo. The next thing Son knew, he was slammed face-first against a wall. His head struck painfully, and immediately his vision began swimming with forlorn little dots of color. Instinctively, he spun to face his attacker, still pressed against the stone. He could feel that hand tighten on his tail, feel it all the way through his spine like a wave of electricity, a relay of needles. He was forced to grip the wall with his hands to stay upright. _:Man, I really blew it that time. I pissed him off. Great job, Goku…: _

When his vision cleared a bit, he could see his nemesis glaring down at him, less than an arm's length away. Or rather, he could see his eyes. Clashes of white with stormy, churning centers. "You're right," he hissed. "I **_am _**wasting time."

In the hand that wasn't crunching his tail, Piccolo began to form a small, golden ball of energy. Now Son could see. He could see a face amazingly like that of Daimao, highlighted in gold and black. He could see snarl lines plainly on a sharply-cut nose. He could see a tight, wicked smirk curling the lips. 

He could see his death looming over him, calm and assured. Unremorseful. 

Goku closed his eyes, deciding it would be best if he **didn't** see the blast hit. 

Piccolo could feel the heat in his hand. Burning. Becoming painful in its eagerness to be released. 

He was eager to release it as well – and put this whole, miserable episode of his life as far behind him as possible. Tear it from his mind and stuff it in some cobwebby corner of his memory, hopefully never to be seen again. 

Then why was he hesitating? What was he waiting for? Certainly not for his rival to beg for mercy, because he knew already that would never happen. He found himself inspecting his enemy for any outward sign of fear…he saw none. He **had** seen none. Just a bit of surprise, and now resignation. 

No, that wasn't quite true. When he'd slammed the man into the wall, he'd thought he could see a flash of betrayal…

Why did that effect him so strangely? 

No matter. He'd bury the effect with the one who had caused it.

His hand twitched, and he let the blast go. 

There was heat beside him. Incredible heat. And pieces of rock struck his flesh like super-mosquitoes, making him flinch. But somehow or other, Goku didn't feel dead…

Goku opened his eyes, regarding the massive, cauterized crater in the wall by his head with due amazement. The blast hadn't hit him. Piccolo had missed by a full handspan. 

Wait, he'd…missed? Piccolo? Piccolo couldn't have missed from 200 meters away, much less two feet…

Goku turned his head back toward his captor, and for just one moment, he met a pair of eyes that seemed just as confused as he was. Then he saw those eyes narrow, felt a jolt through his tail like nothing he'd ever experienced before. All the air left his lungs in a scream, and he fell to his knees, trembling still from the aftershocks that seemed to be tying his spine in knots. This was it. This was the end. Piccolo might have missed once – the gods alone knew why – but Son knew that it wouldn't happen again.

But the blast didn't come. Son looked up…then stared around himself in disbelief. He was alone. 

"What just…" he began, scrabbling to his feet haltingly like a very old man. He curled his tail tenderly around his waist, noted that nothing was broken…

The full realization hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. The demon had let him go.

The human's initial reaction was to run outside and look to see where he'd gone. He managed a grand total of two steps before he had to slump against a wall, panting. He'd forgotten how much it hurt to have his tail so mistreated. It felt like he'd just had someone stomp on the small of his back; his legs didn't seem to want to work just yet. 

But he was alive. And not even seriously hurt. 

Son felt a small smile labor through his pained expression to settle on his lips. "Heh. Be seeing you soon, Piccolo." 

The demon leaned back against a rock, closing his eyes to the glaring sun, feeling it beat down on his face. His physical wounds – those didn't bother him so much anymore. The real pain, the pain that had caused him to stop walking and give in to this moment of uncharacteristic weakness, came from inside. 

His hands rose slowly, settling palm-up at his midsection as though he were holding something flat across them. He stared down at them as though they were completely to blame for whatever had happened. 

"What did I do?" Piccolo hissed at those open, scarred palms. "And…and why did I do it?" 

'It' had been the single most unnerving experience of his life. He'd had his archenemy's life in his hands, literally. And rather than crushing him like a gnat…he'd released his grip.

He hadn't intended to do it. He was **_sure _**he hadn't done it on purpose. He'd raised his hand with every intention of blowing that human's empty head right off his shoulders. Hadn't he? And then, for no apparent reason, his hand had moved a fraction of an inch. He'd felt it move, and he hadn't corrected it. Even though he knew full well that it was enough to angle the blast too far left…

Piccolo cursed, slamming one fist into the rock behind him. A spray of dust flashed into the air as a crack sprouted like miniature lightning , splitting the rock in two. _:How disgustingly symbolic. Tambourine would love this…:_

But he didn't love it in the least. It made him feel as if somewhere, some god was laughing at him. Not unlikely, considering what he'd just done…

__

: I let him live. I **intentionally** spared his life. And I have no idea why.:

Or did he? If he looked closely enough, perhaps he could figure it out. He bowed his head, forcing himself to take a good, hard look at things he would rather not have seen. Alright, so no one had ever given him the benefit of a doubt before. _:Phe, fool, that's because you're a demon. You don't **want **anyone to doubt that…: _So no one had ever…helped him…

He snarled out loud. _: That's enough. I don't **want **to know why, alright? As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. And next time, I won't miss, I'll be sure of that.:_

But there was something quite obvious that he **could not** forget – and he had the feeling that he never would. Son Goku had saved his life, and asked nothing in return. 

That was something Piccolo would never forgive him for. 


	5. We return to where we started

            *Author's note – sorry this took so long, peeps. New school, new life, new problems…I'm in a serious adjustment phase. Don't worry, I'm not going to let this fic die anytime soon. I just may be a little slow. Keep the faith for me, alright? (Kudos to anyone who guesses that reference ~.^) 

            Also at a personal request…eh, threat?...from a very good friend of mine, I'll be posting a new fic here shortly…a *completed* epic, for once. Just to give all of you a heads up. 

            Well, that'll do for now…hopefully, I'll be back with all of you shortly. 

Chichi wondered how long two grown men could possibly spend slamming one another into the dirt. Sparring, they called it. Ha.   

                Goku had been gone for who-knew-how-long…definitely since before she woke up. And that had been nearly two hours ago. The woman sighed heavily and continued to dice the carrots she'd bought for lunch. Come to think of it, Goku had been acting strange lately…

                Well, stranger than usual, she mused, and a slight smile tweaked her lips. There was no denying it – her husband was just plain weird. He had a tail like a monkey, he rode around on clouds, he could fly, he was probably the strongest man on the whole planet…

                …he was completely, utterly selfless. He'd believe anything you told him, he'd do anything to help you even if you were a complete stranger. You couldn't help but feel safe around him – he always made her feel as though no matter what went wrong, he'd be able to make it right. He loved to make people smile…he was most definitely the kindest man she'd ever met, even if he was a little goofy sometimes…

                …and she loved him for all of it. 

                But the past few days, there had been something eating away at him. Something had been tugging the corners of his mouth down, something had been diluting his usually-lively expression. Something had been causing him to toss and turn all night, and wake up in the morning looking as though he'd run the gauntlet between sunset and sunrise. She didn't know what it was, and she hadn't asked – she didn't feel comfortable prying into his personal problems just yet. She figured he'd tell her when he felt like she should know.

                As if in response to her thoughts, she heard a door open…and heavy, tired tread coming into the kitchen. Chichi whirled to face him, her earlier, gentle smile maturing into a full grin – 

                Which metamorphosed into a grimace when she saw him. He had a black eye. His gi was tattered at the front and covered in sand, of all things…good grief, he looked like he'd been in a war. "Goku," she said, her tone automatically shifting into 'warning mode' – "what happened?" 

                "Um…sparring got a little rough?" Goku answered, grinning endearingly although he was obviously worn out.

                "A little rough? Goku, you look like you ran face-first into a brick wall or something." 

                Her husband put one hand behind his head and laughed nervously. She'd already come to recognize that as a sure sign that he'd done something stupid. "Goku…" she chided, crossing her arms…

                "Aw, don't worry, Chichi. Nothing like that'll ever happen again."  

                "You'd better make sure it doesn't, mister," she rejoined, although she couldn't quite keep her lips from twitching. _Boys will be boys, after all…especially that one. _

                "An' now I think I need to get some rest – I'll see you in a couple hours, okay?" 

                Chichi noded once, turning back to her cooking. Normally, she would have scolded him a little, just to keep up appearances – but whatever had been bothering her husband lately, she could find no trace of it now. And if a little battering was all it took to get her Goku back to normal, then she was all for it. "Don't sleep too long, Goku – you wouldn't want to miss lunch." 

                Another short, merry laugh. "Don't worry, I'll be awake for that." Then, she heard him leave the room with a cadence of slow, dragging thumps. 

*        *       *

It had been a long time since the youngest son of the demon king had slept. Not in all the moons since his unpleasant encounter with his greatest enemy – and his greatest source for personal scorn. 

Piccolo, uncharacteristically giving in to a moment of weariness, was sitting on a bluff, one knee drawn up under his chin, the other leg dangling over the edge of the rocks. He was several hundred feet above the shimmering, moonlit sands of the desert – the air was almost painfully dry this high up – but he was unconcerned with heights. He wanted to be undisturbed, and very few people would come to bother him in such a place. 

He had known better than to go home. 

Even if he'd wanted to see his brothers again…which he didn't…he'd harbored no illusions as to how **_that reunion would run. And he didn't particularly care to dodge questions...or the occasional left hook. Phe, he didn't answer to them anyway. Or anyone. _**

The fact that **_he didn't know the vast majority of the answers either was completely irrelevant. _**

Lying was also out of the question…not because he doubted his ability to lie convincingly. Not because it would have weighed on his conscience; he believed that to be a foolish human sentiment, anyway. No, he couldn't lie because he knew full well that Tambourine would know he was lying. 

And his older brother got entirely too much satisfaction out of seeing through fabrications the way most people saw through windows. 

_This being 'dead' – it's not such a bad idea. Makes me wonder why I didn't think of it sooner. _

Actually…why _hadn't he left before? He felt so much more at ease, now…and after a few moments, he knew why. Because he'd finally cut a string that had been binding him for far too long. _

It had been literally years since he'd been afraid of them…but he had still gone along with whatever Cymbal had come up with. Oh, sure, he'd growl and complain…he'd been belligerent. He'd grown gradually more disrespectful – but he'd still followed. From habit. 

And now that he'd broken that habit, he decided, he was free to do as he pleased. That thought was oddly reassuring.    

His eyelids started to droop, but he forced them back open. That was another of his habits…one that he also owed to his family. He couldn't close his eyes without feeling a flicker of panic in some deep, fenced off corner of his mind…the panic that any creature feels when he shifts from predator to prey. For that reason, he always fought sleep for as long as he could, giving into it only when he dropped from exhaustion – and even then, the brief times spent unconscious were more coma-like than soothing. 

                And he never, never slept somewhere easily visible…

                He had long since learned his lesson about dozing in the open. It was one that his brothers had driven into him in their usual, stern manner…which was assurance enough that he'd never forget it. 

                The specific event came to mind, still clear and crisp as a freshly-painted sign, and he made a halfhearted attempt to push it back into his subconscious where it belonged. 

                Even though he knew that he'd end up remembering it, no matter what. Memories like that couldn't ever really go away. 

*       *       *

_                He regained his senses quickly when he felt cool, clawed hands jerk him upright – he was fully awake by the time a slap tore across his face. "You little idiot," a voice, Cymbal's voice, snarled. "What if I had been Son Goku, hmm?"_

_Piccolo tasted blood in his mouth, but resisted the urge to spit it out. He didn't intend to give the older demon the satisfaction. "I don't think I'd be any worse off," he shot back instead, doing his best to keep his voice level. As the shock of being woken in such a fashion wore off, he realized that Drum was holding his arms firmly behind his back. His stomach clenched – this was going to be bad. _

_                A low chuckle. "Probably not – but at least this way you'll learn something" _

_                And then it started. _

_                It wasn't a beating in the strictest sense of the word – the motions were too calculated for that. Cymbal knew exactly what and where to hit in order to hurt, but not kill. Piccolo knew from the outset that he wasn't going to die – not this time, anyway – no matter how inviting that option might seem later. He did not scream._

_As suddenly as they had started, the blows stopped falling. He allowed his head to hang limply against his chest, only the occasional shudder betraying that he was still alive. Was it over? He made an unenthusiastic attempt to move, but the hands still held him tightly…painfully. He could feel blood dripping from the pressure of those fingers…no doubt drawn from claws pressed too hard against flesh. _

_"Tambourine," Cymbal said in a low, soft voice – Piccolo had not realized that his other brother was there – "I don't think that this is really getting the message home."_

_The other demon snorted. "It's your message, Cymbal. You deliver it," he hissed, sibilant voice faintly disapproving. _

_A low chuckle.__ "What's the matter – squeamish?" _

_"I prefer to think of it as being…reasonable." _

_An annoyed sound from Cymbal.__ "Come now – I know you have something to illustrate the point. He's so used to being slapped around that it just doesn't have as strong an affect on him anymore." _

_Piccolo heard the casual humor in Cymbal's voice, hated it. _

_"What would you have me to do?" Now, Tambourine sounded indignant. "I'm rather poor at shadow puppets."_

_Silence.__ Piccolo forced one swollen eye to open, and he saw that Cymbal was regarding Tambourine with a knowing smirk. "I'm sure you have something in mind."_

_The younger demon paused, his naturally slitted eyes narrowed still farther in thought. Finally, he nodded, stepping forth with seeming reluctance. "Very well…but I reserve the right to say I-told-you-so when blows up in your face.."_

_Drum wordlessly tightened his hold on Piccolo's arms, and Piccolo could feel Piano taking hold of his legs. Instinctively, he tensed, as though his body already knew what was going to happen to it._

_One of Tambourine's long, supple hands came to rest on his shoulder – his touch was light like that of a butterfly. Piccolo wallowed in surprise for a heartbeat or so. What was going on? He had thought that this was going to hurt. Then he noticed that the hand, which had always been unnaturally cold before, was warm. Strangely warm. Getting warmer. Hot. Painfully hot. Then…burning. Still hotter. He could feel his flesh blistering beneath those light fingers, flaking, turning to ash. The cry that he'd successfully bitten back so far tore free of his throat. With the eye that wasn't swollen shut, he looked in horror at the spot that should have been burn black…and found that his skin was still perfectly whole. _

_Tambourine smirked mirthlessly at him. "You needn't worry about that much of it. I'm merely stimulating your nerve endings." His voice was composed, but full of irony as well. _

_He began to move his hand from left to right, across the young demon's collarbone. Piccolo had never imagined that such pain could be possible…the burn went to his bone…he had been burnt before, but the agony was supposed to fade after the first few moments as tissues and nerves were cauterized…this endured. _

_Only when he took a deep breath did he realize that he had been screaming. _

_The hand continued its motions slowly, methodically. It sought out his eyelids, his ears, the palms of his hands, and moved on…only to retrace those areas again as soon as the reality of how much it hurt had begun to fade. Eventually, he stopped thrashing because the feeling of recently singed flesh grinding and crackling as it bent was more painful than the effort was worth. _

_An eternity later, the pain had stopped. He didn't know how it was possible that he was still conscious…wasn't sure if he actually was. He could tell by the comforting, surrounding darkness that his eyes were closed; when he heard the sound of his own ragged breathing, he decided that he must look more dead than alive. _

_At this point, Piano and Drum withdrew their hands. He could hear the thud of his body hitting the ground, although he was beyond feeling. _

_Words fell on his ears like raindrops – he could barely make them out. Something about going home. The sound of two beings, most likely Piano and Drum, taking off. Then, a voice, one that was unmistakable even in his condition: "Would you care to tell me what the purpose of that was?" Tambourine's voice was flat, blank. _

_A long pause._

_"He'll never drop his guard out in the open again, now will he?" Cymbal answered at length. His tone was odd, almost defensive. _

_"A lot of good that's going to do you if you kill him."_

_It was funny, Piccolo noticed, that Tambourine could say something like that and sound as though he didn't care one way or the other. _

_A snort.__ "I know you better than that. It doesn't matter to you whether he lives or dies – sometimes I have to wonder whether you actually have anything in you to care **with."**_

_Then, disturbingly, Tambourine chuckled. "I'm not here to care, Cymbal. I'm here to observe…and I know that this can't help but end badly."_

_This time, the silence was very different…contemplative. "Yes…I know exactly what I'm doing. You're fond of metaphors, aren't you? All right. Think of this little brother of ours as a…I don't know, a lump of iron. Before it's hard enough to form a sword, it must be fired. Otherwise, the first time he comes up against something stronger than he is, he'll break."_

_Pause._

_"All swords have two edges, Cymbal." Tambourine's voice was strangely quieted, reflective. "I think that this one might yet cut your hand. _

_Cymbal actually growled. "Serves me right for trying to have a rational conversation with you." The sound of displaced air, and another ominous silence. _

_Then, inexplicably, the feeling of a hand on his back.__ He flinched involuntarily, but slitted an eye open to catch his brother's reaction. Tambourine's expression was utterly unreadable. "How many hands **are you going to cut, I wonder?" Then, the hand withdrew, and he was alone again. **_

_Before he blacked out completely, Piccolo had time to notice that, even in his strangest hallucinations, Tambourine never quite made sense. _

_*        *        *_

Piccolo could not fully suppress a shudder. He wondered, not for the first time, just how much of that conversation had really happened, and how much of it had been a product of his overexerted senses. 

How many hands, indeed. What nonsense.  

Then, painfully, before he could push it aside, he remembered a very different pair of hands. A different voice. The memory ached more than he could describe, and in ways he had no way of recognizing – he cursed beneath his breath.  Piccolo made a mental note to kill Son Goku soon…as soon as demonly possible, in fact. 

For the life of him, he still couldn't figure out why he'd let the man go.

He shook that thought away as well. Quickly. He didn't want to see what the end of it was. Yet, he still had to wonder…why. Why had that monkey-tailed idiot saved his life, knowing full well that if their positions had been reversed, he would have been dead? Piccolo decided that it was good that he didn't understand – it meant that he was still sane. 

But now, ten moons later, the questions were still weighing on him. Sourly, he made up his mind to forget about it – all of it. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted Son dead. . .so that he could set fire to every last, confusing memory of him. 

Especially those blasted eyes of his. 

He growled briefly at his own folly – this was getting him nowhere fast. "I wonder what he's up to," he muttered, mostly to distract himself. Turning his senses toward where he knew his rival to be, he reached out…cautiously. His mind brushed against Son's chi. It was…different, somehow. Stronger, yes…

But there was something else. That chi wasn't just pulsing with life…it was living. It was – it was brimming over with some emotion that Piccolo couldn't identify. It felt like energy, a pure wave of energy, like the excitement before a battle, but utterly without the fear or the anger. He didn't understand. 

The demon's hands curled silently into fists as he probed farther. Son's wife's chi…unusually low, but not dangerously so…and a third. 

Oh, gods. 

No. 

He focused more closely, almost (but not quite) willing to abandon all stealth in order to confirm what that third chi was. It had newness to it, a freshness, like a desert flower recently opened. And it was powerful. Piccolo could tell that even then. 

Son Goku had a child. 

For the first time in his life, Daimao Piccolo thought that he would faint from shock alone. Only a quick digging of claws into sandstone kept him from pitching off the bluff. 

                Even several minutes later, he was powerless to do anything but sit atop that rock and stare aimlessly into the star spattered sky. Son Goku had a child. A son. Then, when the shock wore off, he had to forcibly suppress his first wild impulse, which was to fly directly to wherever Son was and destroy his spawn before it could grow old enough to become dangerous. He knew from the behavior of the desert creatures that parents become ten times as determined to fight when their offspring is threatened – and he couldn't deal with Son under the best of circumstances. 

                Besides, the child had done nothing to him. Not yet, anyway. He had no doubt that such a time would soon be coming, but humans took so long to grow out of the stupid, pampered stage and into the sill-stupid-but-not-so-dependent stage that he would, he judged, have ample time to decide just how much of a threat Son's child would be. 

                Which lead to his second wild impulse: to train as if his very life depended on it. This one he gave into wholeheartedly. 

*        *        *

                The fortress was quiet that night, Cymbal noted absently. 

                He was sprawled on his back on one of the old stronghold's many turrets, his breath creating staccato puffs of fog in the frosty air, enjoying the utter lack of noise. It wasn't often in a family like his that he had time to appreciate the wonder of hearing nothing at all. 

                Then again, even the novelty of such tranquility tended to wear off after a while. 

                It had taken some getting used to, this silence. The first few weeks after the tournament, he'd jumped at the sound of every slammed door or creaking board, half expecting his youngest brother to come storming in and demand anything from an explanation to fresh blood. 

He had not come. 

                At first, Cymbal had been relieved…until he noticed that he kept starting out the window as if to fly to the desert for a sparring match. He kept hesitating before conducting another meeting – and the hesitation would last until he reminded himself that all of them **were present, that Piccolo was ****not going to show up. **

                He was dead. 

                Not that Cymbal was sorry that such a thing had happened. He was glad of it, in fact. Piccolo had been a source of constant irritation to him: a reminder of Daimao, of what could have been. And the brat had had the audacity to grow stronger than he was. Growling, Cymbal told himself that he really **would have to see about getting his youngest brother's chair removed from the circle around the table. It was an eyesore, no longer necessary. He should have taken it out when the thought first crossed his mind, not after. **

                Sigh. 

                To make matters even stranger, Tambourine had also been veritably dead to the world for the past several months. His most annoying of siblings had locked himself in a tower for some reason or other, ostensibly to study. If Cymbal hadn't known better, he would have thought that Tambourine was moping. The eldest demon ground his teeth. _If I could only be so lucky.__ Knowing Tambourine, he's simply engineering more ways to make my life miserable._

                He shook his head suddenly – the night air no longer agreed with him for some reason – and he flew through the nearest window. Which just happened to lead to the meeting room. Stranger still, it was not empty. Piano was standing there, his broad back to Cymbal. 

                "What are you doing here?" Cymbal asked coolly. 

                A ponderous shrug. "I dunno. Just wandering around." 

                The eldest demon rolled his eyes. "Haven't you anything better to do?" 

                "No." 

                There really wasn't an answer to that, Cymbal supposed, so he let it go. Then, a question popped into his mind, a strange, stupid, nonsensical question…and he could have kicked himself for asking it. "Does it seem strange to you that he's gone?" 

                Piano turned to look at his elder with an expression of genuine confusion. "Who?" 

                Although he didn't know why, something inside him shrank from that question. It was too…something. "Never mind," he snapped, turning to go. 

                Piano's voice stopped him. "Ey, Cymbal…you want me to get rid of that extra chair tonight?"

                Cymbal paused for a long moment. Of course he wanted it gone. The sooner the better. He'd just been thinking that, hadn't he? 

 Finally, he glared over his shoulder and said, "Do it tomorrow." 

                Even as he strode out the door to points unknown, Cymbal began making bets with himself over whether or not Piano would be able to remember for that long. 

*        *        *

                The crinkling sound of another page turning. The ghost of a smile upon thin, green lips. "Who would have thought that he would learn to miss you, _oni-chan? But he does, after his own fashion." A low chuckle. "Which is why he's going to absolutely ****__hate you when you come back – more so than before? I don't know. It's likely."_

                Tambourine continued to flip through his book while the thoughts of those around him played over his awareness like oil on a puddle, each distinct color representing another mind, another life…

                Another soul.

_The things I could do, if I could only keep track of them all… _


	6. And we begin again

            NEARLY FIVE YEARS LATER…

"Daddy, who's this?"

            Goku froze. This was not an unusual occurrence – the "deer in the headlights" look was a frequent visitor to his face. True, he rarely if ever froze in battle…but when he heard his wife opening the door after he had recently cleaned out the fridge, he would freeze. Whenever Roshi or Kami had caught him doing something he knew he shouldn't have been doing…such as eating while training…he would freeze. 

            So when he saw his four year old son holding up an old scrapbook, turned to a newspaper article and a nearly full-page shot of someone he had almost completely put from his mind, he froze. He had not expected to find Piccolo's eyes glaring at him again so soon…or ever again. 

            "Daddy?" Gohan asked again, tilting his head, birdlike. 

            At last, the man found his voice. "That's…that's a guy named Piccolo."

            The boy grinned. "Was he your friend? You're in the picture…how come you're looking mean at each other?" 

            "He…uh…." How could he answer a question like that? It was too bizarre. What had they been? Not friends, that was for sure…but he saved the word 'enemy' for people like Cymbal. "Not exactly," he said finally. 

            "Who was he, then?"

            "He…he was somebody I knew once. Really angry, but not such a bad guy all the time." Which was true enough, he supposed….when he was asleep, the demon wasn't quite so cranky.

            Gohan brightened. "Can I meet him?" 

            "NO," Goku practically yelped.

            The boy's brow creased. "But if he's not bad, then…" 

            "Er….hey,  how would you like to go out and play for a while?" Goku asked, one hand going behind his head…..following it up with a nervous laugh.  

            Gohan beamed up at him, his eyes the way Chichis were when she didn't scowl at him. "Okay!" 

            And as his son literally scampered out the door, Son Goku breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He turned to glare at the scrapbook, sitting open on the kitchen table. "S'all your fault," he muttered, reaching over to close it. 

            His eyes came to rest again on the dark green face, set in a familiar scowl…cold, uncaring, unreachable. "What ever happened to you, Piccolo?" he wondered aloud. "Did ya go home…are you still mad at me?"

            He half expected the newspaper to answer, feeling a little betrayed when it didn't. Closing it, he blew the dust off the cover…setting it high on a shelf, well out of reach, out of sight, out of mind. And then  he sat down in one of the wicker chairs, wondering idly what new adventures would mark future pages in that book. 

*        *        *

            Piccolo knew he was being reckless, stubborn, foolish….all of the things that Tambourine had always yelled at Cymbal for. But it had been five years. He had been training for five whole years for his next bout with Son Goku and his offspring…whom the demon had never seen. 

            Well, now he would see him. 

            Piccolo wore no cape now…it and the turban had long since been discarded. White was a sensible color to wear in the punishing glare of the desert, but when you were trying to disappear in the velvety layers of shadow in dense forests, it left something to be desired. 

            He had grown in the last five years. Had changed. So much time alone had made his voice more gravelly from disuse, and had made him generally less inclined to talk. His thoughts, though, were much the same…pragmatic and clean, stripped of anything fanciful or unnecessary. 

            He would see the child, asses his abilities, and make a decision. 

            And curiosity, Piccolo told himself, had nothing to do with his decision whatsoever. 

            That was when he heard it. A faint crying in the distance…a human sound, as familiar to him as an old lullaby. In barely a breath, he was after it…a leaf borne on the wind, soundless and swift. Yes…it was getting louder, closer…

            It was above him? Was the child flying already? Piccolo looked up…and up….and up the sheer wall of a cliff. On a branch, stubby legs kicking, was a child….but the sun was too bright and at exactly the wrong angle, so he couldn't make out…

            *SNAP* 

            Having only enough time to widen his eyes as both branch and child came down, Piccolo could think of nothing to do but step back….catching the child reflexively to keep it from landing on him. The boy…for boy it was, apparently…was still squalling, eyes clenched tightly shut, apparently not realizing that he had not hit the ground. 

            "Stop that," the demon all but barked – he'd had his fill of the pounding sound resounding in his sensitive ears. 

            The child stiffened, uncurling a tail…Piccolo's eyes bugged out at this….a TAIL from his waist…and opening his eyes to stare up at his unwitting rescuer through a screen of sable locks. Soft eyes the color of coffee blinked up at him, widening as well. "Mr. Piccolo?"

            There was an instant problem….a superimposition….and image from his father's memories. A child, wild hair, looking up at him through a cascade of black, tail lashing….closer, closer,  pain erupting through his chest, his back, no air….warm, sticky running down his abdomen and his spine, choking ….

            His eyes doubling in size, he dropped the child, taking a quick step back before he even realized that he'd moved. 

            The boy immediately crabwalked backwards until he managed to scramble to his feet, at which point he simply stared at the much-larger being with a look of utter, amazed shock on his face. "You're…a lot bigger than you looked in the picture, sir." 

            Not knowing which to react to first – the honorific, the fact that this child knew who he was, that he wasn't screaming, or that he looked so insanely like his sire – the demon merely stood there, schooling his face into the stony mask that had always served him so well against his enemies.

            The little boy held out his hand. "Uh….pleased to meet ya, sir. My name's Gohan, and I didn't mean to fall on you and thank you for saving me, 'cause…."

            "I did NOT save you," The demon snapped, crossing his arms…deeply offended at even the suggestion. "I just didn't want you landing on me."

            "Oh. Well, thanks just the same."

            …

            Piccolo found that, for one of the few times in his life, he had nothing to say in reply. He could not recall ever having been thanked before. Certainly, he'd been mocked with an occasional "thanks for nothing…" but never had anyone actually meant it. He didn't have any idea how you were *supposed* to respond to something  like that…but he knew that it was definitely making him uncomfortable. 

            He HATED being uncomfortable.

            The demon glared directly into those two eyes, bright buttons against a face that could have walked right out of his subconscious. "Don't ever do that again," he half-growled. 

            The boy blinked. "Do what, sir?"

            "Thank me. I've done *nothing* for you." He allowed his upper lip to rise up over one fang….sharpening his glare consciously, as much a threat as a sword pointed at the boy's throat. "And while we're at it, I'm no mister. Got it?" 

            "Yes sir." 

            The demon barely heard him. He was too busy contemplating the futility of giving rules to a being he was planning to kill anyway. Son was nowhere in sight, and that boy might be dangerous in time…and besides, what better way to punish his enemy for daring to pity him? What better way to prove to him that it had made no difference whatsoever…that he had failed in his little conversion attempt? 

            What better way to prove to himself that he felt no differently about his enemy or his task than he had before that…that….idiot decided to play good Samaritan? 

            So he leveled a hand at the boy, preparing an energy blast. He could not help blinking when the child didn't react at all – at least not in a way he would have expected. And Then Piccolo realized that the child had no idea what he was doing. He couldn't see that he was about to die. 

            "Um….my name's Gohan, in case you wanted to know." Admittedly, he sounded a bit nervous…but usually someone who was about to have his head literally blown off his shoulders would be more than nervous. He would be trembling. Running, stumbling, and falling in a blind panic. 

            Gohan was doing none of that. This bothered Piccolo deeply, like sand in his shoe….chafing at something subtly, enough to be irritating…but he didn't know why it was there. Or what it was. 

            "What are you doing?" the boy finally asked. 

            "Don't you know?" Piccolo snapped back coldly. It was unthinkable that Son Goku would not have taught his son something of fighting by now. Surely he had. Surely he wanted his offspring to fight as he did…or at least be able to protect himself. After all, his own father….

            Wrinkling his brow in utter confusion, the boy shook his head. "Nope." 

            …well, Son had never made any sense anyway, Piccolo reflected sourly. And he was wasting time. Here he had a clear shot…a chance to make up for the stupidity of letting his greatest enemy fly away untouched after…after that cave incident. To show that whatever strange disease had turned the man's brain to mud hadn't affected him in the least. And he was going to take it. 

            He built the energy up around his hand. 

            The boy grinned suddenly. "Hey, that's cool. How are you doing that?"

            The demon merely snorted and took aim, right between the too-soft eyes that shimmered in the soft light of afternoon beneath a shadowy curtain of raven-hued bangs….and it was familiar somehow. He had seen something  similar once….somewhere…

            _The little girl looked up, the dark, gaping holes beneath her bangs reflecting sudden, desperate hope coupled with fear…_

            _Stop it, he told himself firmly. __Just stop. It's different. _

_            He really would have fired at that point, but his hand was shaking. With a snarl, he clenched it, letting the energy disappate…_

            "Hey, sir…I'd better be getting home. Mom'll be worried."

            Again, Piccolo did not answer. He was busy, squeezing his fist so tightly that talons dug into his palm…as if to punish it for betraying him a second time. 

            "Do you want to come?"

            With a low growl, he turned on one heel military-style, storming back toward the forest. So he hadn't killed the kid. It was probably a dumb idea anyway…his father would be furious, and if there was one thing he didn't need, it was an angry Son Goku on his hands. 

            Speaking of whom….he had training to do. And he'd wasted more than enough time here. 

*        *        *

Piccolo had long since lost all concept of time – his body's protests had been utterly drowned in the numbing demands of his _katas__. _His cape and turban cascaded from a nearby rock, orange-hued in the light of the setting sun. His breathing, though steady as ever, was deep; he drank in air with the hunger of a man starved for months. The sweat that poured down his face had ceased to be distinct droplets, but were steady streams, glinting in the scant light as the dripped from his antennae. 

            There was something beyond brute strength to his motions, something beyond technique. His movements were fluid, and his form was dark against the crimson sky – a fire shadow dancing on the wall of a cave. 

            All this the onlooker noticed in the second that he arrived, and not without a faint glimmer of appreciation. Never respect, not for a being such as this, but…appreciation. It wasn't every mission that the people he was sent to exterminate provided him with such a show. He reached up to brush a strand of his uncooperative, raven-hued mane away from his scouter lens. 1100. Not bad. Not great, certainly, but not bad. 

            The emerald fighter beneath him froze abruptly, as if he somehow knew that he wasn't alone. He stood taut, turning his head immediately…and Radditz found himself staring into a pair of furiously surprised eyes. 

            They Saiya-jinn warrior chuckled. How cute – the little Nameksei-jinn was mad at him. He grinned wolfishly and, on impulse, began to clap slowly, deliberately, each one ringing through the still, desert air like a bell. "Well done, lizard-man. It was almost as good as watching the infants on my planet learning their drills for the first time." 

            The Nameksei-jinn – the cautious and oft-ignored part of Raditzu's brain whispered that it was very odd for one of them to be on earth, but the Saiya-jinn promptly pushed it to the very back of his mind – did not rise to the bait, but stepped backward into a defensive crouch. "Who are you?" he asked calmly.

            _Hmph__. Strange accent, _Raditzu thought automatically. _Nameksei__-jinn or ningen?_"None of your business, green man. You'll have to excuse me for dropping in on you like this – I'm looking for a man named Kakkarotto. I thought that you were him." 

            The Nameksei-jinn narrowed his eyes and shifted his feet slightly in the sand. To Raditzu's trained eyes, he could only have been testing his footing. "Well, since I'm obviously not, I suppose you'll be going." 

            Raditzu felt a laugh bubbling up inside him. Gods, who said that Nameksei-jinn were all a bunch of tree-hugging cowards? This idiot wasn't backing down…and to a Saiya-jinn no less! He widened his grin a bit and said, "No, I don't think I will."

*        *        *

            Piccolo, inwardly seething over his failure to notice the other warrior's arrival, let his eyes travel the length of this newcomer, and he did not like what he saw. The being, obviously a warrior, was a full head taller than he was. He was clad in armor that left his legs and arms bare, and in the fading light his muscles rippled like the ocean on a calm day. A long scar ran from the inside of his thigh to the outside of his knee; another curved from his shoulder to his elbow, white against the burnished bronze of his skin. 

            The demon liked what his chi senses were telling him even less; this being was powerful beyond anything that he'd ever encountered before. "Listen," he growled, "I'm not interested in a fight with you." 

            The newcomer didn't respond to his words at all, but continued to stare at him with an altogether disconcerting look on his face and in his posture, an odd mixture of excitement and…hunger. "Oh, but I am," He responded softly. The brown, furry belt that Piccolo had mistaken for part of his armor twitched.  

            Piccolo blinked twice, trying to make certain that his vision was clear. It was. The belt had moved. Which meant that it wasn't a belt. It was a tail, like…like Son's. The demon kept his face perfectly blank, though inside he staggered from the shock. "Why?" 

            The other warrior laughed out loud. "Why not?" 

            And then, without warning, he dropped from the sky like a winter rain. Piccolo barely had time to leap away as the newcomer's foot impacted the ground. The other warrior grinned, obviously pleased that his quarry was skilled enough to dodge, and came at him again. 

            Piccolo sidestepped a second time, flinging a chi blast at his strange assailant as he sped by. The warrior pivoted, caught the small ball of energy easily in one hand, and crushed it out of existence. "You'll have to do better than that, green man." 

            The demon decided not to waste breath on a reply; instead, he lunged into the offensive. The other warrior moved into a defensive position that Piccolo did not recognize, his face alight with apparent pleasure as he blocked kick after kick. "Pretty footwork. Too bad you're so weak – you might be fun, otherwise."   

            He latched onto Piccolo's foot with one massive hand and flung him away; the demon flipped, landing lightly on his feet just in time to see the other warrior coming toward him. He lifted a four-fingered hand and threw a small chi blast at the other's eyes, which he batted away effortlessly. 

            Piccolo had no time to grapple with his surprise; he barely managed to get his forearm up to block the next blow. The force of impact sent shocks through his whole body, and he was driven back a full foot. A second strike, this one a kick, he deflected with his knee, and immediately regretted doing so as pain shot through his leg. 

_            He's too strong, I can't fight him in close like this. _ Piccolo launched himself straight up, hoping that his strange attacker would be slow in reacting. Indeed, the other made no move to follow…but he seemed to have stopped paying attention to him altogether. As he watched, wondering whether or not to stand and fight, the stranger rolled his eyes and pressed a button on the lensed device he was wearing over one eye. 

            "Loosen up, _ouji-sama__. _I'm just…well, yeah, but…messing around?" The warrior's expression turned sour. "Aw, come on…you'll never believe what I found here! It's a _Nameksei__-jinn__." _ He rolled his eyes. "No, I am _not_ being sarcastic…it's a Namek! Well, we're kinda fighting currently, and…uh-huh, that's what I…yeah, really fighting…yes, **_with _**hitting back…you are no fun, do you know that?" 

            Whatever the last reply was, the newcomer obviously didn't like it. Adopting a truly put-upon expression, he pushed a button on the device. "Sorry, green man, it looks like we're gonna have to cut this one short. Line of duty and all that, you know." 

            Then, he did lift into the air. He winked once through the colored glass of the lens before he flew away – and the wind from his departure was almost enough to knock Piccolo from his place in the sky. 

            _This could be bad, _he decided, eyeing the contrail that the warrior had left behind…the only sign that he had been there at all. The demon looked at his forearms, noticing that they were already dark purple – bruised. He certainly didn't envy Kakkarotto, whoever that was. 

            Piccolo shuddered despite the heat in the desert. That being had said something about his home planet…was he an alien? If so, why did he look so much like Son Goku? 

            The youngest son of the demon king was becoming increasingly sure that this stranger could not be allowed to go uninvestigated…and there was only one being that he knew of who could offer any sort of advice. 

            He only hoped that Tambourine would be in a co-operative mood.  


	7. With a whole new set of problems

            ***Quickie from the author**

**            I can't help but notice that my reviewers are yelling at me for not producing faster– and to tell you the truth, while I find it hilarious and quite flattering, I'm also a little bit aggravated. What you guys have to try to understand is that I intentionally halted this fic at a relatively "down" moment – free of terrible cliffhangers – because I knew I would be starting college. The whole experience has been nothing short of insane, and while I apologize for having been absent for so long, I can assure you that nothing kills an author's drive to write like a, "Well, it's about friggin time" response to a chapter.**

Please keep in mind that I'm not angry with any of you, and I'm grateful for the response – I swear. Just know that I'm writing as fast as my little fingers can go, and I refuse to post anything until I'm satisfied with it – also, chapters end where it feels right to end them, so that's my shortness excuse ~.^ (geesh, guys, that last chapter was longer than some of the one-shots I've posted.) 

Okay, so much for my pseudo rants. Enjoy the rest of the chapter.

________________________________________________________________________

He had forgotten the feeling of the fortress, even in such a short time. 

But now, with it staring at him with its snarling portcullis and empty-eyed windows…he could remember. And he could remember how it had been during its peak, alive with the sounds of a small army mobilizing for war. There were never many – a few trained mercs, a few sell-out humans willing to turn against their race in order to be on the winning side. And among them, walking with the cool, confident strides of a born conqueror, had been his sire.

Through those eyes, he saw so much that would otherwise have been lost to the misty words "before you were born." He saw Cymbal, enjoying the militant buzz with the air of one born to it, wine-colored eyes reflecting the light from the makeshift furnaces that were forging weapons. He saw the two massive warriors, almost twins in appearance – Piano and Drum. Lifting, carrying…..always present on the outskirts, though rarely in the center compound.

The buzz, he recalled through the ears of his sire, had been intoxicating. The pulse of weapons – old fashioned swords and spears, for chi wielders had no use for guns – being wrought from silver….for silver, as a conductor, would channel chi. User's strength to the blade. Blade's strength to the user. All set to the all-encompassing thrum of the forges, the baritone voices of men and low contraltos of the rare female joiner…  the dance of a major movement upcoming, to which everyone unconsciously swayed….

Or almost everyone.

Only one being seemed untouched by the strange music of war. He was tall and imperially slim….demon. The mercenaries tended to give all of them a wide berth, occasionally looking at them with the sort of amazed fascination one would devote to a crouched viper. 

They looked at this one only from the corners of their eyes. 

Through his father's eyes, Piccolo saw his most reclusive brother leaning coolly against the rough-hewn stone of the wall…emptily taking on the proceedings with an expression that was utterly unreadable. Even his eyes failed to glint with the battle lust that fairly glowed from the onlookers, infecting everything and everyone else in the compound – the only thing they gleamed with was twin pinpricks of red, reflection from the forges. Only his thinly pressed lips gave a sign as to his thoughts on the proceedings, which may have been disgust, scorn, or thin-lipped amusement.

And Daimao wondered, not for the first time, what was wrong with this one…

___________________________________________________________ 

All that had disappeared before Piccolo's birth. 

The mercenaries had gone home. The fires no longer burned. Here and there, battlements crumbled, sullen and silent, rather like the oppressive sense of destiny that seemed to hover in his own mind most of the time.

This dead place held no answers now…perhaps it never had. 

His information, if he was to get any, would have to come from the being who had, throughout both of Piccolo's lives, hovered on the sidelines: a sarcastic gargoyle, silent and distant and invariably objective.

Now the trick was going to be getting in to see him. 

Hoping fervently that his other three brothers were out doing something else, Piccolo drew the stark white of his cape closed before him. He began walking down the hill, turban drawn low, knowing that no one would be set on watch – but with the family's sharp eyes, someone might spot him anyway. With luck, they would mistake him for a trick of the eyes…the sunlight on snow.

As he drew closer, he tried not to breathe too heavily – to keep the puffs of fog on his breath to a minimum. It took so very long to reach the castle, especially to one used to flying, that he allowed a break of discipline once he reached the wall – and aggravated sigh. 

The next question – would it be safe to fly up to that window? He looked up, glittering eyes measuring the distance. Not far. Perhaps three seconds. But would that use of chi attract someone's attention? Cymbal rarely checked…he preferred to rely on his ears and his eyes….but that did not mean he would not notice a blatant use of chi this close.

With a soft snarl, he decided to risk it – and fight his way out if it came to that. He bent his knees and launched himself, flying through the open window of the tower to which Tambourine had laid claim. It was a claim that no one, even in the old days, seemed to begrudge him. Far better to have those too-penetrating eyes locked up somewhere, behind walls as cold as they were.

He could tell in the instant of that his older brother was brooding – the heavy silence in the room was like a fog, hanging stagnant in the air. There were no lights in the tower, no carpets, no tapestries – in other words, nothing of comfort. Only an ancient, stone chair, a stone table that looked as though it could once have been used in some elaborate, sacrificial ritual, and the window that he had come from. No, wait, there was one more thing….stretched out on the table was a chessboard. The pieces – not white and black, but gray and darker gray – lay arranged in the starting positions.

Tambourine lounged said chair, a massive tome lying open on his lap, his back to Piccolo. For the longest time, he did not move. Then, without starting, looking up, or even raising his voice, he said, "Piccolo. What a pleasant surprise." 

His flat tone indicated neither pleasure nor surprise, but Piccolo had not expected either. "I've something to tell you," he stated coolly. 

Tambourine turned a page; the crinkle of old parchment was like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. "If it's that you aren't dead, then I'd already noticed."

Piccolo snorted. "When?" In spite of himself, he felt a prickle of anger budding in his chest. 

There was another long delay before Tambourine answered; Piccolo had the distinct impression that he was finishing the page. Which, of course, was far more important than the present conversation. "Oh…a while ago," he answered absently. Piccolo could not see his face, but he noticed that the muscles on his brother's neck didn't even tighten – he was still perfectly at ease. "No one else knows. Not here, at least." The dry amusement in that last sentence was impossible to miss. 

Piccolo had no words to describe the tangle of emotions that he'd felt then. _He knew! _And he had done nothing. Had left him in the presence of an enemy, had…

 "Well, what would you have done?" Tambourine asked rhetorically. And he turned another page. "I told you – you _and_ that great idiot downstairs – that the tournament was a preposterously stupid idea." 

He shivered, profoundly glad that his brother couldn't see it. Tambourine was right, of course – he _had _warned them. But how had he known what he was thinking? 

"If you've something to proclaim besides the fact that you're alive, I wish you would. I have…other matters to attend to."   

            Piccolo narrowed his eyes. He had hated all of his brothers at some point in his life, but rarely so strongly as he did at that moment. "Are you going to listen, or not?" 

His brother executed a graceful, one-shouldered shrug. "When have I ever not listened to _you_, brother-mine? Now stop glaring so – it disturbs my concentration." With that, the older demon stood up, turning his chair to face the table. "I tell you what…you can tell me over a game…that should relax both of us."

The youngest of Daimao's sons felt his skin crawl and told himself irritably that it was just the chill of the castle in the oncoming night.  He eased into the opposite chair, staring down at the pieces with the usual irritation. He'd often played this game with his brother, and was not looking forward to losing for the sixteenth straight time. "I ran into someone this afternoon…"

            "And you're absolutely certain that he had a tail," Tambourine mused, wiping out yet another pawn with a knight. Twilight had long since fallen in the mountains, casting the room into eerie half-shadows that clung like cobwebs to his slight form. 

Piccolo growled softly, more to convince himself that he wasn't the least bit intimidated than to express aggravation. "You've asked me twice. I'm sure"

Tambourine curled long fingers around his angular face in thought. "Another planet – that's not altogether impossible."

"What do you think?" Piccolo asked, much as he hated to. He had always preferred to make his own decisions…but he had no idea what to make of the afternoon's events, and his older brother had not been wrong yet. And, a bit morbidly, he edged a rook forward.

The rook disappeared to a rather nonchalant slash with a bishop. "I think that if you stick your neck out too far, it's likely to be severed, brother mine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, falling back in a futile attempt to protect his king.

"Exactly what I intend it to, Piccolo."

"Oh, well thank you. That's so _helpful and all…" the younger demon growled, watching in something close to disbelief as his brother cut easily through his line…again. _

"Did you ask me for help, brother?" Down goes the queen. "Or for advice?" 

In lieu of admitting that Tambourine had a point, he instead demanded, "Okay, tell me this, then. WHY do you insist on this chess thing when you always win?" 

"Because the look on your face is always so utterly priceless….much as though you'd just eaten a lemon." And down goes the king. 

Refraining from comment, Piccolo slumped back in his chair. "Okay, great, you win. Do you have any parting words?" 

Tambourine uncoiled from the chair. His voice, when he spoke, was like wind over snow. "I think you should stay out of this, brother…at least for now. If he looks as much like Son Goku as you say he does, then it's quite an odd coincidence."

Piccolo crossed his arms, glaring into his brother's empty eyes. "I thought that you didn't believe in coincidences." 

           "I don't. All the more reason to let the matter lie." 

For a surreal moment, staring into those dead pools, Piccolo felt as though he were a child again, listening to his quietest brother's lessons – but that moment passed quickly. Piccolo nodded. "I suppose you're right – for now. But if you breathe one word of this, particularly to Cymbal…"

Tambourine smirked, and his lightless eyes became slightly arched with dry amusement. "Really. You know me better than that." 

Indeed he did. Piccolo couldn't think of a time when Tambourine had shared any information with Cymbal voluntarily. He nodded once and, deciding that his visit was over, he turned and leaped from the window. 

Tambourine watched him go, his smirk growing marginally wider. He closed his eyes, focusing inward on the vision he had seen that morning – red and purple blood mixing together on golden blades of uncut barley. He had no doubt that, because he had told Piccolo to do otherwise, his younger brother would find a way to get mixed up in current events. Piccolo had always been strange that way. Predictably strange, but strange nonetheless: he never took advice. Not even when he fully intended to.

Oh well. Predictability could be used, so he wasn't complaining. 

He settled again into his chair, stretched once like a cat, and prepared to continue his reading. However, when he picked up the book…he noticed that there was something inside of him that had not been there earlier in the afternoon. It was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach…very strange, almost a tugging. He wondered what could have caused it, deciding finally that he needed a drink. 

            Piccolo realized after a few moments of flight that he was headed almost directly toward the dwelling-place of Son Goku. He stopped in mid-air as though he had skidded into a brick wall, his eyes wide. What had he been thinking? He should have known better than to fly about randomly…it was foolish, dangerous even. Particularly with tall, hairy, and bloodthirsty lurking around somewhere…

Pointedly, he changed direction, but noticed after a few seconds of flight that he was drifting back in the direction of Son. Snarling at his own idiocy, he pulled up again, hovering in angry contemplation. He was still distracted by that fight, he decided. That was his problem. He certainly hadn't been planning on asking Son what **he** knew about the situation. That would have been ludicrous. 

And yet…it would provide a good opportunity to check up on the man, feel the increase in his power up close. And he'd be able to get a better look at the child…see what sort of danger he would pose. And…

Piccolo slapped himself sharply on the forehead. Gods, what was he thinking? Some sort of psychopath was flying about causing who-knew-what-sort of havoc, and he had actually been considering going off to have a little chat with his mortal enemy? "It's official," he muttered under his breath. "I've lost my mind." 

But if Son knew something that he didn't…

            He cursed under his breath once, softly. Pressing his back against the rough, unyielding trunk of a pine tree, he stared into the cleared expanse that marked the Son house as he would at an unfamiliar fortress. The house itself was small, domed like an igloo. The light from the windows was yellow-gold, seeping into the night like the sun through clouds. It was strangely warm and inviting, and Piccolo unconsciously shrank from it.

The child was in the yard, running around sporadically like a moth around a lantern. It took Piccolo a few moments to decide what the boy was doing, for he had certainly never done anything of the sort. Son Gohan was chasing fireflies. 

Piccolo couldn't help but wonder why the boy found those insects so fascinating. Gohan wasn't even doing anything with them once he caught them. He would simply cup them in his hands, the light leaking from between his fingers like a budding chi blast…and then he would let them go and chase them again. 

How utterly pointless. Piccolo shook his head. What had he expected, after all? Humans were insane. 

Glancing at the yard once more, he decided that this was no trap...and he was tired of waiting. He took a deep breath to steel himself against who-knew-what, and strode into the clearing as if he were a king entering his throne room.  

He was certain that he had made no noise, yet the boy looked at him anyway. For a moment, Son Gohan's eyes grew terribly wide…but then recognition dawned, and he grinned. "Piccolo-san!" he chirped, obviously excited, and ran toward the demon. The boy stopped perhaps an arm's length from him, beaming up at him earnestly. "Hello, sir! What're you doing here?" 

Piccolo blinked once, keeping his face studiously blank. He had certainly not expected such an enthusiastic welcome and, on some level that he didn't quite understand, it was making him uncomfortable. He didn't know whether to react with anger or indifference, so he finally decided to ignore the situation entirely. He spoke softly, a slight rumble to his words, "Is your father home?"

The boy's expression fell instantly. "Uh-oh. You two aren't gonna fight, are you?"

_Smart kid._Piccolo smirked in spite of himself. "More than likely." 

Gohan drooped visibly. "Oh. I thought maybe you came to see me." 

The demon snorted. "What on Kami's green earth would prompt me to do that?" 

The boy looked as though he was about to answer, but at that point the door opened. Son Goku strolled out, stretching, utterly relaxed. "Gohan, it's time to…" he trailed off, his tail ramrod straight, when he saw whom his son was with. His eyes darkened dangerously, and the very, very tip of his tail began to twitch. 

Piccolo felt one corner of his mouth lifting, and he made no move to stop it. Now _this _could be fun. "Is something…bothering you, Son?" he asked with exaggerated casualness, surreptitiously moving a step closer to the boy.

Son shifted as well, obviously agitated. "What are you doing here?" 

The demon shrugged, crossing his arms. "I just have a little something to discuss with you." 

The man nodded, his eyes darting from Piccolo to his son, who was staring back at him confusedly. "What's wrong, daddy?" the boy asked innocently, his head tilting like a bird's. 

Son swallowed. "Nothing, Gohan," he said in a reassuring tone of voice that, to his credit, shook only once. "Just…come inside, alright?" 

Gohan grinned. "Okay…but can Piccolo-san come too if he promises not to blow anything up?" He walked over to the demon, wrapping an arm around one of his legs. Piccolo somehow managed not to flinch – it was well worth the effort when he saw the look of near panic cross Son's face, saw the man fighting to hold his position. 

Piccolo kept his eyes firmly on Goku when he next spoke. "That's alright, kid – your father and I need to talk out here for a while. You go ahead." 

Though the boy looked vaguely disappointed, he released his hold on Piccolo's leg and walked toward the house. Neither Piccolo nor Son Goku moved until he had shut the door behind him – and then, Son crossed the clearing with brisk, purposeful, _angry _strides. "You leave him out of this," he virtually hissed. 

Piccolo smirked, more amused than he had been in a long while. "Really, Son – didn't it ever occur to you that your enemies might just figure out that they can use that child of yours against you? You'd think that once would have taught you…"

Son's eyes narrowed, and his tail wound itself around his waist. "If it's a fight you want…" 

The demon couldn't help it – he laughed. "Family life agrees with you – you've almost grown a backbone." 

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Piccolo. Why did you come here?" 

Piccolo tilted his head a bit, eyeing his rival critically. He hadn't seen Son this angry in a long while and, though he was spoiling for a fight, now wasn't the time. Maybe afterward… "I saw someone this afternoon who reminded me of you. He said he came from another planet…and he was looking for someone by the name of Kakkarotto." 

Son blinked, confusion replacing the anger that had previously dominated his expression. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

Piccolo felt his own expression turn into one of wry puzzlement. "He had a tail – like yours. He had hair that looked more like a rat's nest than anything else – like yours, but longer."

He could tell by the shock that was written plainly in Son's posture that he was more surprised by the news than Piccolo had been – the man's jaw dropped so low that it was a wonder it didn't hit the ground. The demon shook his head. "I suppose that answers my question," he muttered. Then, he turned sharply, heading back into the woods. 

"Wait!" Son was in front of him, blocking his way. "What's so important about this guy that you'd come to talk to **me** about him?"

Piccolo crossed his arms, pondering. Did he have anything to lose by telling the man? Probably not. Anything to gain? He didn't know. Oh well. "He came upon me while I was sparring, told me that he sensed my energy and thought that I was Kakkarotto. He picked a fight with me when he found that I wasn't…" the demon rolled his eyes at Son's skeptical expression, "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. **He **wanted to fight." 

"How was he?"

Piccolo narrowed his eyes. "Good. Real good. Stronger than you." He held up one forearm, watched Son's eyes widen when he saw the bruises there, obviously from a simple block. "We never got to finish – he started talking to someone through a little lens that he wore over one eye, then he just took off." 

Son nodded once. "I'll keep an eye out, but I really don't know if…" He looked over his shoulder suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. Piccolo was about to ask what was wrong when he felt it too – the same dark, bloodstained, insanely potent aura that he'd run across earlier that day. 

"That's him, isn't it," Son murmured unnecessarily. Piccolo didn't bother to confirm. The man shook himself out of his stupor, rounded on Piccolo so suddenly that the demon had no time to respond.

"He must have followed you," Goku growled, his face thunderous. "If you've led him here…"

Piccolo shook his head. "Impossible. He wasn't behind me earlier – I **do** have enough presence of mind to check local chi signatures occasionally, unlike some people I could mention…"

Son had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry, Piccolo… 'guess I wasn't thinking.."

"Not an unusual state for you," Piccolo replied evenly, looking up into the sky. Peripherally, he could see Son biting back a retort by biting his lip. He hoped that the man would draw blood. 

Strangely enough, it didn't occur to Piccolo that he should have left until the massive stranger appeared in the sky above them. 

The man landed calmly, as if it was an everyday occurrence for him to visit this exact yard. He even yawned once as though to make his point. Then, his eyes found Son Goku, and even Piccolo flinched inwardly at the look of triumph that pooled in them. "Kakkarotto," he stated, a bit of mockery fluttering around in his voice like a butterfly trapped in a jar. "My, how you've grown."


	8. We reinvent the wheel

            "Kakkarotto?" Piccolo repeated, so softly that even Son could barely hear him…and in a tone that made him wish that he couldn't. It was as if the demon were, as usual, a step or two ahead of him…and from the sound of it, Piccolo didn't like what he saw in the least.

            Goku shook his head, closing his eyes against his flying bangs. "Piccolo, believe me, I don't know what he's talking about."

            It was obvious from Piccolo's expression that he wasn't convinced. The demon declined to answer completely, his eyes still fastened on the newcomer. Goku noticed that he was shifting gradually into a fighting crouch…angled mostly to face the other warrior….though Son had the distinct impression that he was partially expecting to take both of them on. :_Figures__. Most of the time, he thinks I'm a complete numbskull. Then, the one time I **want** him to think that I don't know what's going on…which I don't…he thinks I do!:_

            "You don't know me?" The massive warrior put his hands on his hips, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm…though his eyes darkened as well, as if something really _were paining him. The look was gone by the time he spoke again. "Really, Kakkarotto…you don't remember your own brother? I expected better than that of you." _

            Goku wondered for a moment if he were the brunt of some kind of massive joke. At any rate, he didn't seem to be the ONLY one who didn't find it funny.

            "_Brother!" _Piccolo hissed under his breath, skittering away from him like a burned crab. His eyes were flashing with something impossible to read, but far from promising.  

            "He's lying," Son snapped, unsure whether he was talking more to Piccolo or to himself. It did nothing to lesson the intensity of the glare that his rival was directing at him…dark eyes that seemed to want nothing more than to rip his heart from his chest.  Piccolo had had little enough faith in him to start with….it was really no surprise that now he should look so….betrayed.

            The new warrior laughed out loud, ignoring Son's comment completely. "That's right, slug. Brother. _Raditzu_of _Vegetasei__._What's the matter? Surprised?" Abruptly, the newly proclaimed Raditzu rounded on Son. "Speaking of Mr. Escargot over there, why is he still alive? If _he's _the one who's been keeping you from completing your mission, then you should have killed him already."

            Goku shook his head slowly. "What mission? What're you talking about?"

            Suddenly, Raditzu was all business, his expression ten times more frightening now that it was intense rather than mocking. "You really _don't _remember," he said slowly, as if he were sounding the words out for the first time. Then, with more force, "You fool! Three hundred years of tradition! Generations of warriors…all _lost _just because you were _clumsy_!"

            "I'm sorry, but I don't understand," Son said finally, his words terse. 

            Raditzu snarled. "_Saiya__-jinn _do **not** apologize!" 

            Feeling increasingly as though he were trapped in some sort of surreal nightmare, Son shook his head again. "I don't know who you are, but I'm _not _Saiya-jinn, and you're _not _my brother!" 

            "Son…" It was Piccolo's voice, soft beyond measure, almost breathless. "If it's at all possible for you, stop being an idiot – _look _at him. He looks just like you." 

            As if to accentuate the point, Raditzu uncoiled his tail from his waist, set it to swaying in a very predatory manor. "I never thought I'd agree with one of those slug people, Kakkarotto, but he **is** right. You're Saiya-jinn. It's something to be proud of, you know – or you will, soon enough." 

            Goku said nothing. 

            "We are a race of warriors," Raditzu continued. "Battle is a Saiya-jinn's whole life. All by ourselves, we have destroyed countless civilizations. Even a Saiya-jinn baby is capable of wiping out one of the weaker planets…at least, those who don't forget their missions," he added, with an accusatory glare in Son's direction, as if the whole incident were somehow his fault. 

            "That's…that's crazy!" Goku protested as soon as he found his voice. "How can a little baby cause that much damage?" 

            Raditzu rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed upward at the crescent moon. Beside him, Goku heard Piccolo's breathing cease altogether, and he experienced a moment of blinding frustration. How come everyone knew what was going on but him? 

            Seeing that he was still clueless, Raditzu growled. "The full moon, you dolt. Saiya-jinns transform by the light of the full moon! We become oozarus! You know, the giant monkey thing that you turn into occasionally?" 

Goku swallowed the lump in his throat, and his voice shook nervously when he laughed. "Alright, now I know that you've got the wrong guy. I've never…" He trailed off when he saw the way that Piccolo was looking at him with unreadable, midnight-hued eyes. "Piccolo, what is it?" 

            The demon opened his mouth, shut it again, shook his head. Raditzu laughed. "Go ahead, Nameksei-jinn…tell him!" 

*        *        *

            Piccolo glared at the Saiya-jinn, mostly so that he wouldn't have to look at Son. _And why, _he wondered, _don't I want to see his reaction? It'll hurt him…hurt him badly…to know he's every bit the monster I am…_ But somehow, Piccolo just couldn't seem to drum up any enthusiasm for seeing this bit of news hit home.  

            He had heard of it happening exactly once, and once had been enough…delivered in Tambourine's blandest voice…begun with an "oh, by the way." His elder brother had observed it from a distance during the twenty second budokai…as had Cymbal, though the latter refused to talk about it…saying merely that it was a fluke and would never happen again. 

            Nonetheless, during his "training" days, Piccolo had had more than a few nightmares about the being he was dueling with changing suddenly into an enormous ape and swallowing him whole. As of late, he'd half convinced himself that it was just something his brother had made up to make him more cautious…

            "I did, didn't I?" Son almost whispered. "With that tournament…with Jackie Chun, right before…the last thing I remember was the moon…and that means…" Piccolo looked at him at that point, noticing that he had turned nearly the same color as the moonlight. 

            "Snap out of it, baka," he hissed, hoping that Raditzu wouldn't hear. "You've got time to gape like a dead fish later." 

Son's only response was to close his eyes and swallow. Piccolo narrowed his own eyes. He knew his enemy well, and, though finding out that you were alien and were-monkey all in the same night would, he supposed, be a shock to anyone…he wouldn't have expected this strong a reaction from Goku. Son usually took big shocks more or less in his stride. There had to be something else behind it – though he'd have to find it out some other time. "What it means is that you're an alien, Son. Alright? Get over it." 

            The longhaired warrior laughed. "Good advice again from a Nameksei-jinn! Gods, I wish that Vegeta was here to see this." 

            "Wait…" Goku hissed, straightening. "Nameksei-jinn. You mean that Piccolo's…"

            The larger Saiya-jinn shook his head. "What is it with this planet and amnesiacs? Of **course** he's an alien. You'd think that the pointy ears and green skin would be a dead giveaway." 

            Goku's eyes grew as wide as saucers as he looked at his rival. Piccolo was a full two shades paler than normal, though he said nothing. "Is that true?" he whispered softly. 

            "How should I know?" Piccolo shot back snappishly. 

            Raditzu smirked. "Well, if you're ready, I have one more surprise for you. Vegetasei, planet of the Saiya-jinn, has been destroyed. There are only a handful of us left – and we need you, Kakkarotto. We want you to come with us, to help us." 

            Mutely, Son shook his head. 

            With another low growl, Raditzu said, "Please, brother, enough theatrics! It's in your blood – you love to fight! Come with me! Of course, we'll have to kill the green guy first," he added, winking at Piccolo and receiving a particularly rude hand gesture in return, "but you won't mind, I'm sure."  __

            "I'm not coming," Son replied, and his voice was surprisingly composed. "I don't want any part of the kind of killing that you do." 

            Raditzu's mood shifted again, from light to murderous rage. "Oh, we'll see about…" 

            At that point, the sound of a door creaking shattered the silence. Every eye in the clearing turned to the house, where Gohan stood in the doorway. "Dad, Mom says that dinner's…" He trailed off when he saw the people assembled in the yard. 

            Son's heart sank. He prepared to call to Gohan to get back inside, but before the words could leave his mouth, Raditzu was standing on his doorstep, the boy dangling by the back of his shirt from one massive hand. "Well," the Saiya-jinn mused, one corner of his mouth lifted into a chiseled expression of satisfaction, "what have we here?" 

            Goku swiped a hand across his eyes, but they weren't blurred. Piccolo's voice, again from beside him; "I didn't see him move either, Son. It's not your eyes." 

            To Goku, though, it didn't matter. "Put him down, Raditzu," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. 

            "Why would I want to do that? I can see by his tail that he's Saiya-jinn, just like us." Raditzu grinned at him rakishly, his long, ebony mane almost eclipsing the warm light cast by the open door. "Perhaps, if you're too afraid to come, I'll take him instead." 

            Son growled and took a step forward, only to be halted by a green hand in front of him. "Don't be any more foolish than you can help, Son," the demon warned. "That's what he _wants._"

            "I don't _care._" Son snapped back. "He has my son, in case you haven't noticed."

            "I suppose that getting yourself killed is the obvious solution, then," Piccolo hissed in response, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms. "By all means, go ahead." 

            Goku pointedly ignored him. "Put him down, Raditzu," he called, his voice as clear as the peal of a church bell.

            The massive Saiya-jinn laughed. "I don't think I will, actually – no. What are you going to do about it?" 

            By this time, Gohan had dissolved completely into tears. The boy was afraid – reasonably so, as even Piccolo had to acknowledge – and was doing his best to squirm free. Raditzu tightened his hold marginally, an amused smile on his lips. Son ground his teeth while his tail bushed around his waist. 

            And then, the other shoe dropped. "What in Kami's name is going on out there?" a feminine voice rose from within the house.  Raditzu's focus immediately shifted to the door, and his smirk grew a bit more menacing. 

            "Well, what have we…" 

            He was cut off when Son dove at him. 

*        *        *

            Piccolo saw his rival leave the ground and cursed quietly when he saw Raditzu look over his shoulder, lips pursed in anticipation. The next movement was faster than the demon's eyes could follow – all he saw was Son Goku landing on the ground on his back, blood running down his face. 

            Some instinct that had, no doubt, developed in his many matches with his brothers warned Piccolo of his own immediate danger: he leaped straight into the air barely in time to avoid a massive energy blast that tore beneath him. An impossibly short span later, the blast crashed into a tree behind him – he could hear the impact. The tree did not catch fire, nor did it simply fall over; it exploded. Shards of bark and wood pelted him at truly alarming speeds, and he felt a few trickles of warmth down his back. 

            There was an eerie silence after the tree's destruction; Gohan had ceased all sound and hung limp from his uncle's hand, obviously paralyzed with fear. Piccolo hovered uncertainly, wondering if his best chance for survival lay in making a run for it or in staying to fight. Trying to be discreet, he glanced down at Son. The man had not moved…or had he? With his superior vision, Piccolo noticed that his rival's hand was twitching and that one of his eyes was half open. 

            A trick. 

            Piccolo somehow managed not to laugh. Son Goku using deception. Maybe there was hope for him after all. 

            He continued to think that until the worst thing that could possibly have happened…happened. "Let go of my son, you monster!" A woman, small-boned and compact, appeared in the doorway and struck the Saiya-jinn with a high roundhouse kick that would have snapped his neck if he had been human. Unfortunately, he wasn't. Chichi hopped back on one foot hastily, knowing that she could never hope to battle someone of Raditzu's size and strength in close – but she couldn't have known how fast he was. 

            Piccolo wasn't sure of Son's cry of absolute outrage came before or after Raditzu slapped the woman away as if she were an obnoxious fly – but he saw his rival sail across the clearing, taking the offensive again. The demon somehow resisted the urge to slap his forehead – what an imbecile. 

            Yet, if he were strong enough…

            Piccolo descended as well, though without any battle cry. Raditzu caught Son's flying foot easily in one hand and held the man suspended – which effectively prevented him from using either hand. Thus, he wouldn't be able to block Piccolo's sudden offensive…or so Piccolo had hoped. 

            When he saw Raditzu look up at him and wink in that devilish way of his, Piccolo realized that he had miscalculated. Badly. 

            Raditzu disappeared for an instant – the next thing that Piccolo felt was a kick land on his back, which sent him spinning through the air. He struck the ground before he had an opportunity to figure out which way up was and lay there for a moment, panting. 

            He looked up in time to see Raditzu dash his brother against the side of the house and drop him. Goku was still conscious, though not by much; the man strove to get up without success, his expression hard with determination. 

            Raditzu casually kicked him in the side, and blood trickled from his mouth. "Is that all you have, brother? Is that all your mate and child are worth to you?" 

            Piccolo realized at that point that he was angry. And it made no sense at all to him. 

            "I'll tell you what, Kakkarotto…I'll make you a deal. If you can kill, say, 100 people by this time tomorrow, you can have your son back. Or," here, Raditzu's eyes glinted in a truly alarming way, "you can always come and try to take him from me. But you're not that stupid, eh?" 

            Those words seemed to jolt Gohan out of whatever trance that he'd been in; he began thrashing furiously. "Daddy, don't let him take me…" he pleaded, his voice full of tears. 

            "How cute," Raditzu growled with disgust evident in his voice. "You're as bad at raising warriors as you are at fighting, brother. Until tomorrow…unless you're afraid." 

            And then Raditzu took to the sky. Because of his position – slightly behind the two of them – Piccolo had a marvelous view of Gohan's pale, terrified face as the duo disappeared into the sky…and the outright plea for help in the boy's eyes did things to him that he neither understood nor cared to dwell on. 

*        *        *

            Goku bit back a groan with some effort, trying to force his eyes to focus and his knees to support him properly. He managed to raise himself halfway and then, by some miracle, to straighten. The world swayed around him as he looked up, fixating on the place where his newly proclaimed brother had disappeared; he bent his knees and…collapsed. 

            He lay motionless for a moment or two, tried to rise again, and met with no greater success…but he simply could not fail now. 

            Then, he heard a soft whispering of fabric – someone was walking toward him. He knew who this was, and he knew what to expect. Piccolo would no doubt have something derogatory to say about the way that he had let his emotions get the better of him, would probably add an I-told-you-so to boot.  

            Instead, Piccolo was regarding him with an expression that came perilously close to sympathy. "Conversations with my family usually run about that way, too," he stated, sounding vaguely amused. 

            "Well, you know what I've learned from all this?" Son asked, putting a hand to his bleeding lip. "Big brothers suck." 

            One corner of the demon's – or was he a demon? Raditzu had said that he was alien – mouth twitched in what could have been a suppressed smirk. 

            "Tell me about it." 

            Son shook his head and extended a hand upward. Piccolo's expression immediately darkened, and he turned his back. "If you think I'm going to help you up, you have another think coming, monkey." 

            Goku blinked in spite of himself. "Whatever happened to 'idiot human?'"

            A snort. "You aren't human." 

            "Okay…" Son said, "So why not 'something Saiya-jinn?'"

            "Must you ask so many questions?" Piccolo shot back, exasperation manifesting itself in his stiff tone and stiffer posture. 

            "If you're going to insult me, I'd at least like to understand why you choose the one you do," Son snapped back, narrowing his eyes a bit. 

"Fine. If that," a tilt of the head indicated the direction in which Raditzu had gone, "is what it means to be Saiya-jinn, then you're not one of those, either." 

            Goku spent a moment trying to decide whether or not to be flattered. Finally, "Thanks. I think." 

            A low growl. "That wasn't a compliment – it was an observation." 

            "Well, whatever it was, I'm glad I'm not like him," Son announced flatly. 

            They both heard the sound coming from within the house at the same time – tear-choked, very unladylike cursing. "Chichi!" Goku hissed, making another attempt to get to his feet. This time, he managed that much, and he even succeeded in stumbling into the house. Piccolo rolled his eyes. Of course. The noble hero had to go to the aide of his chosen lady. 

            How positively nauseating.     

            __


	9. And find new ways to crash

            Stay or go – that was the question, and one that Piccolo pondered at length while his ally was inside, tending to his wife. 

            Piccolo knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn't his place to be here – not with these people. He'd always known that he was not like them in any way; matter of fact, knew now that he was even less like them. Before, it had always been something of a comfort to know that at least he was born to earth…that he had as much right to this planet as they did, regardless of appearances. 

            Now, he wasn't so sure. 

            Of course, he couldn't see himself returning to the desert and ignoring this newly named problem, either. Leave a fight like this to someone else? No. Not in a millennia. But to fight it with Son Goku? 

            …well, there was ONE other viable option, but he was as loathe to face it as a cat was to swim. There were his own brothers. They wouldn't stand for an intruder on their planet; gods, they didn't always tolerate the locals. Sure, going back would be…awkward, but he had a feeling that Tambourine would help him gloss it over, especially in light of this strange set of circumstances…

            Would they come with him to fight? Sure they would….most of them, anyway. The question was, would going back to them look too much like begging for help? And was that exactly what it was? 

            The demon…alien…he didn't even know how to think of himself anymore, growled under his breath, glaring up at the wide spread of stars. There was a time and a place for pride, as he'd long since learned…and it wasn't here or now. 

            The stars were unusually bright that night….even without the moon, the world was soft and silver around him…the breeze light like a soothing hand. Like the night after his last real, militant involvement with them…when one of them had left him to die, and the others had not cared. 

            Sure, he would have done the same. He'd confessed to as much – but the knowledge was heavy on his mind….another training weight, one he wished he could take off. "Every man for himself" may well have been the unwritten motto of his clan. If something happened to him out there, he was on his own…exactly the way it should be, right? And there was, of course, no guarantee that the others wouldn't turn on him even if they won…

            So what. He could handle himself. 

            Of course, that WOULD be one advantage to fighting alongside Son Goku. Son wouldn't leave him. Not even when he himself requested it….

            _Ye GODS where did that come from? If you fall, you DESERVE to die. You want insurance, get a day job. _

 Pragmatically speaking, he really only had one choice. And Piccolo was nothing if not pragmatic. With a low sound between a snarl and a groan – it was going to be a LONG night – he turned his face due north. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken to the air yet when he heard the door creak open. 

*        *        *

Son Goku blinked at his tentative ally's back as he came out of his house. He'd expected the other to leave during the fight…but now that the danger was past, he'd sort of hoped that he'd stick around. "Hey….where are you going?" 

"Who died and made YOU my keeper?" The reply gruff….and far from pleasant. 

"You're not gonna go fight him all by yourself, are you?" Son asked, padding after him…between the wide eyes and the rapid steps, bearing a strange resemblance to a lost puppy. 

A snort from his rival, who had not turned around. Piccolo seemed….unusually cranky. Maybe it was just that they'd both gotten beaten so badly a little while ago. Losing a fight usually put him in a terrible… "No" the taller warrior all but spat, cutting off Goku's rather wavery train of thought like a sharp knife through string cheese. 

"Okay, that's good, because you should really take me with you." 

Just as coolly as ever, the demon replied "You're not coming." 

Son couldn't help but have his jaw drop at that one. "Like heck I'm not – that's MY son out there, and MY brother. I'm…"

At that point, the demon did turn to face him….and his normally stony face was now set in ice. "I'm going home." 

Not for the first time that night, Goku found himself speechless. He knew what those people were capable of; he'd seen most of it. For a rather breathless moment, he watched this strange being's homecoming in his mind's eye. It wasn't hard to imagine. There'd probably be pieces of him all through the Tsumi Tsubris. 

Piccolo had already nodded to him and turned to go again before he could come close to finding any suitable words…and those only because he preceded them by grabbing Piccolo by the arm and spinning him back around. "That's even worse! Ye gods, Pic, they'll kill you…."

Moonlight flashed on bared teeth…a miniature, curved moon in the other's face, wet and sharp….and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the ground, the whole left side of his face on fire. "Don't _touch_ me," he said, voice lending itself more to threat than to conversation…and he wiped his hand on the side of his gi as though it had come into contact with something completely distasteful. 

In spite of himself, the Saiyan glared. "What exactly are you tryin' to prove?"

"That I haven't lost my mind," was the cool retort. "We couldn't beat him the first time – the second won't be any different."

"It'll be even WORSE if you go out there and…"

The demon rounded on him again…eyes blazing with the slightest hint of crimson…foxfire on a starless night. "And since when," he drawled, low voice the thrum of thunder, "do I let you tell me what to do?"

Before Goku could even hope to construct an answer, his rival was gone. 

*        *        *

There are few things in all of the universe that a Saiyajin warrior can be said to fear. Boredom, Raditzu mused, kicking at a small stone, must be one of them. Top of the list, right next to starvation.

He shouldn't have given his brother so much time. 

If he'd just finished the fight….maybe knocked Kakarotto upside the head and flung him into his ship….he could have dealt with all of the messy explanations later. Actually, the more he thought about it…especially now that there was nothing to do but watch the grass dance in the wind and listen to the stomach-turning wails of his nephew… 

Next time, he wouldn't be so generous. 

Next time, he would be quick….at least with his brother. There really WAS no further use for the Namekseijin, except maybe as after-dinner entertainment. He wondered if he could make the seemingly stoic warrior scream. Now that…THAT would be a challenge. 

Unfortunately he had the sinking feeling that said challenge would be nothing compared to convincing his brother that he was Saiyajin, like it or not. It was a very sick thing, the wild-haired warrior decided, to have the gods play give and take with hope. One moment, he had been ecstatic to hear that his brother….his blood…was living still. Of all the Saiyajin to be sent to earth, HIS kin had survived…

And the boy had had such promise. Raditzu could remember peering down at that fierce little infant….could remember grinning when his brother had snapped at his hand. Maybe he could have made first class someday, if…

But true warriors had no use for "ifs." There was nothing to do but salvage what could be salvaged…by any means possible.

The massive warrior scowled as his nephew's cries faded from full-out yells to a kitten-like whimpering. "Oh, shut up," he growled, giving the pod a little kick.

Of course, he was ignored.

*        *        *

Cymbal glared up at the figure of his younger brother with all the aggravated ire of an orator who has had his podium snatched out from under him. The day had started out as a normal one…and the meeting had promised to be less than eventful. He had, in fact, been in mid-sip of his customary glass of water when the supposedly dead Piccolo came barreling in through an open window, landing with balletic grace on the table…feet apart, arms crossed, the picture of collected urgency. 

Needless to say, the elder demon had choked. He had continue to choke – while Piano pounded him on the back with a lack of accuracy that was more than made up for by his enthusiasm – from Piccolo's first appearance right up until about mid-description of his strange antagonist. Needless to say…the eldest of the Daimaos was not in a mood to listen.

"Can I just…interrupt?" He asked in the relaxed, subdued tone of voice that could only mean that someone was in real trouble. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" 

Piccolo stopped speaking for only a moment to look him dead in the eye. "Sorry…must've missed that meeting."  

"Where have you been?" 

Piccolo offered him a truly aggravating smirk. "Waiting for you to come looking for me. You never did." 

"We THOUGHT you had died in the arena." Cymbal snapped back, half rising from his seat.

"I thought you'd at least wait around to be sure." 

Piano and Drum's heads began to swivel back and forth between the two of them…a couple of spectators watching the tennis ball bounce back and forth, not fully understanding the rules of the game, but fascinated nonetheless. 

"Brilliant, brat – that way we could BOTH have gotten killed, and neither one'd be left to get the job done." 

"Yeah, speaking of which….last I saw, you STILL hadn't gotten it done…"

"Alright, smartass, if you were close enough to see him, why didn't YOU pick him off?" 

The two of them had moved a bit closer during the course of the discussion…eyes fixed in a direct line of challenge... and neither flinching.

"Why should I have?" 

"Because YOU missed the shot the first time!" Cymbal's fist struck the table then, setting glasses to shaking.

Piccolo strode across the table, stopping perhaps a foot or two from Cymbal, glaring down at him with all the malice that he could muster – which was considerable. "Why can't you just admit it, Cymbal?" His tone was scathing, scornful. "It wasn't some stupid mistake I made that lost that one. He beat us. That easy. Get over it." 

The older warrior was on his feet in an instant – levitating up, eyeball to eyeball, nose to nose, set of flashing, bared teeth mirrored two ways. "And do WHAT, brat? Go jaunting over to help him save the world? Ye GODS, you must've hit YOUR head in that ring to…"

Cymbal's voice was loud enough to cover the roar of a fire or a whole phlanx of screams…and yet, oddly enough, a low whisper cut through it, sibilant and cool."You are right, Cymbal."

Silence fell on the room – the whisper echoing somehow…more so than had the yells. And all eyes turned to the speaker, who was looking at none of them. He was examining his water glass with disinterested speculation and, to all appearances, finished speaking.

For once, Cymbal was the first to recover. "I'm…what?" 

It was a very odd thing, Piccolo noticed, to see a demon completely flabbergasted.

A longsuffering sigh from Tambourine. "You have my agreement. It would be foolish to involve ourselves in a battle that we haven't the strength to win." 

The elder demon bristled. "Now hold on, I didn't say that…"

Tambourine waved a hand. "You don't have to. Son Goku has proven too much for us – surely this being is out of our…" 

*        *        *

Piccolo wasn't really sure how it'd happened. One minute, Cymbal had been ready to rip his throat out for even suggesting that they get involved in this…and now here he was, going over logistics with Tambourine, preparing for actual action. . 

What a straightforward, logical description of the problem and the need for participation had not resolved…Tambourine had. It had taken the smaller demon exactly four whispered sentences.

It was downright uncanny…and Piccolo wondered for a moment if the non-warrior had ever done anything like that before. If he'd always been doing it, and he'd just been too preoccupied to notice…if he'd ever done the same to him.

As though sensing his thoughts, Tambourine peered at him over the brim of his glass – the varying grays of his eyes blending together like a monochrome ocean. Slowly, deliberately, he winked. 

For a brief moment, that turned Piccolo's blood to ice…though he could not imagine why.

*        *        *

Offers of help were not long in coming for Son Goku. Even as he paced the lawn after his unusual ally's departure, Krillen landed, falling into step beside him and talking far, far too fast – wanting to know what had happened, what was going on, and was that Piccolo he'd sensed?

So Goku explained it all. He even repeated it for Yamcha when he showed up – but he did so in such a distracted voice that his old friends exchanged a look of concern. 

He didn't say anything else…save to tell them that they couldn't come with him. Getting his son back was something he just had to do alone…

Well…alone because the only other warrior on the planet who he wouldn't have to worry about too much in a fight like that…had left him. Was it silly to feel a bit let down? Betrayed?

Probably…but he did anyway. 

And by Kami, he was worried about Gohan. He knew that that wasn't helping, and that Raditz wouldn't kill him so long as he needed bait, but that's not the sort of thing that a parent could help thinking about.  

Besides, the poor kid was scared out of his mind. Goku could tell. For the first time, he found cause to bitterly regret not training Gohan…at least if he had, the boy would know how to keep calm, bide his time…not attract attention to himself…

And he swore to himself then and there that, as soon as he got him back, Gohan WOULD learn to fight…no matter what Chichi said. One way…or another.

*        *        *

The logistics of the plan – if Piccolo was willing to call them logistics at all – were alarmingly simple. Let the two Saiyajin duke it out…and then come in immediately afterward to destroy the winner. In theory, it was an effective (if bare boned) approach. Just the sort that Cymbal favored…in spite of any and all warnings that perhaps Raditz could deal with Son and the four of them in succession. (It was just generally accepted that "the bookworm" wouldn't fight.) 

And…the more he thought about this…the more irrationally nervous he became. Something about all this felt wrong, even more so than it had to start with. 

He had to get his head on straight again, and he needed a bit of solitude to do it.

"I need some air," he muttered by way of excuse, turning sharply to the right. He moved swiftly through the dizzying array of corridors, his cape billowing like a lost cloud behind him, his expression thunderous. 

He didn't know how long he'd wandered before he came to one of the many windows of the fortress. These "windows" were really just large, square holes cut into the unforgiving granite and covered with sturdy, if somewhat crude, oaken shutters reinforced with forbidding iron hinges and bolts. Once upon a time, defenders had used these openings to dump cauldrons of boiling oil onto attackers. On impulse, he flung the heavy shutters open, not even wincing as the old bolts creaked in protest, not startled by the echoing thud of wood on stone. The rush of bitter, boreal wind that swept into the fortress made the usual drafts seem like a summer's breeze. Piccolo took no notice of it, even when it set his cape to lashing, even when ice crystals began to form on his eyelids. Effortlessly, he climbed onto the sill, allowing the arctic wind to pass over him, feeling the bite of the frost. 

Piccolo sighed in something that bordered on relief. He had never felt comfortable within his family's stronghold. There was something in the sharp turns and narrow hallways that brought to mind the innards of some great beast. Its heartbeat was footsteps that seemed to echo forever once they'd fallen…the sound lonely and distant. Its breathing lay in the endless drafts…and it's thoughts were a near-eternal feeling of menace. He always felt as if the fortress would try to keep him, trap him. So must Jonah have felt in the innards of the whale…

 Self-derision welled up within him yet again; he, the last son of Daimao, was set on edge by stone, mortar, and an overactive imagination. 

_What's the matter with me? _He wondered…letting his restless gaze find the stars. _He'll die.  It shouldn't make any difference to me who kills Son, so long as he dies and remains dead. It shouldn't matter who kills him or how he does it…shouldn't matter, but…_

_Gods, I wonder if I'm the only person on the face of the earth that can make something so simple as murder complicated._


	10. but we're picking up the pieces

Hi folks, this is Onyx speaking. I've been noticing something of a phenomenon on FF.Net lately - the brothers as I've recreated them are turning up in a lot of fan fictions ^.^ This is even aside from the fic that I'm co-authoring with Chaotic Souls - she's a friend of many years, an outstanding author, and I'm honored to have met her. I promise you, you won't regret reading any of her fics.  
As for the occasional use of my characters, I'm both flattered and amazed to see such a thing happening.especially now, almost five and a half years after my first posting of this fic on a wonderful little site by the name of Mamono Shakuhachi. Meanwhile, I'll try to be a little speedier in my updates now that inspiration is knocking again. Lots of luck, and enjoy the next chapter ^.^  
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
Son knew that this was going to be the worst fight of his life even as he leapt onto kintoen.his companion since adolescence.his little orange cloud. He felt immediately comfortable once he set foot on the familiar surface, all of his doubts seeming to drop out the bottom as an unwholesome person surely would. This was one more battle, and he should be used to them by now. The way he had it figured, his energy reading would always be lower if he wasn't flying himself. It was a paltry, sick little advantage, but he'd take what he could get.  
"Are you sure we can't come, Goku?" Krillen asked, hands limp at his sides, a clear expression of dejection on his rounded face. True, the little monk didn't really want to fight Raditzu.but he wanted his friend to go out there alone even less.  
Goku forced a grin, managing to look as carefree as ever, though he didn't feel it. He felt like he'd just swallowed a block of lead. "Naw, Krillen, I'll be okay. You two stay here an' keep an eye on Chichi for me, alright?"  
"Sure. Good luck, Goku" Yamcha responded a bit too quickly, giving him a thumbs up. The newly-realized Saiyajin almost wished that they'd try a little harder to talk him out of this. Then again, if they did.he'd probably take them along, and that wouldn't be good either.  
Flashing a quick V for victory sign, Goku felt Kintoen rise under him, and he was flying - surfing on a breeze. To all appearances, he was in high spirits as he left; he only let his grin drop when he was out of sight of the house. He knew probably better than any of them how badly he was outmatched.but hadn't Daimao been stronger than he was? Hadn't the Red Ribbon Army? Hadn't Taopaipai? And every time, he'd come out on top, no matter that it had been harder than the time before.  
He'd get his son back. He'd find a way. Even if that meant doing it all alone. Even if it meant that he'd die in the attempt. And even as he considered this possibility, he couldn't help but notice that his blood was racing so that it was singing in his veins, thrumming in his ears in an eager cadence as it always did right before a battle.but never so wildly as this.  
Well, Raditsu had been right about one thing, anyway. Deep down, he loved to fight. What his brother hadn't thought of was that.he also fought for love, not bloodlust.  
That was why he had always won, and why he was going to win.  
  
* * *  
Raditsu hadn't known exactly what to expect when his brother arrived.though deep down, he'd suspected that it wouldn't be submission. He was too Saiyajin for that. Even as warped and spineless as he was, there was a warrior's heart buried in there somewhere. Yes, Kakkarotto would have to be beaten at least once more before he'd even begin to consider killing those people.  
Of course, that suited Raditsu just fine. It was about time he got to do some fighting for himself instead of for that undersized, pasty lizard thing.  
Thus, he was ready for any number of things as he stood, knee deep in the grass that formed a waving, living ocean around him.flowing parallel to his hair in the wind. His arms were crossed and his feet shoulder width apart in a relaxed attention.  
Only his expression wavered from the aforementioned stoic posture when he saw his brother riding up on a little puffball of a cloud. It morphed from stoic to disgusted. "Can't you even fly for yourself?" he snapped.  
Son flipped from the cloud to land in a crouch before his brother.the orange gi bringing to mind the last leaf of fall, drifting to the ground. "'Least I can get people to fight me without kidnapping their kids."  
At this, Raditzu found himself scowling so hard that his thick brows all but covered his eyes. With a deliberate swipe of the hand, he pushed the cascade of his hair over one shoulder and out of his way. "Shut up and fight," he growled, baring his canines at the other in open invitation.  
The two did indeed close to fight, though they did NOT shut up.their cursing and hissing and growling and varying taunts carried on the wind for miles. .  
  
* * *  
Piccolo sat up so quickly that he cracked his head solidly on the window sill. With a self-deprecating hiss, he realized that he must have dozed off.in a bloody window, in plain sight of ground and sky.an easy target.  
Gods, he was turning into such a fool.  
But he'd berate himself later. Right now, he wanted to know what had awakened him. It must have been something immense to.to.the horizon was glowing. This was not the light of dawn nor of sunset nor even of the northern lights that had so often eased his sense of loneliness as he'd tried to accustom himself to so much snow after so much sand. They had reminded him of the colors of the desert streaked through the.Ye GODS what was the matter with him, he didn't have time for this.  
The glow was like that of a distant fire.and sometimes like flashing lightning.bright enough to blind, and then deadly dark. There was the mother of all energy battles going on in the foothills.most likely near the plains.  
He didn't need to think twice to realize who it was.  
He smirked.though he had to FORCE his lips to go up. This was a perfect battle so far as he was concerned. No matter who won, they would kill the winner. No matter who lost, they would lose an enemy. Perfect. At least.it had sounded perfect when Tambourine outlined it.  
Thinking about it now, he felt sick.  
It was cowardly of him, cowardly and foolish. He tried several times to drum up some enthusiasm by envisioning his longtime rival getting impaled.blasted.beaten until he bled from a thousand places. It did no good. All he could see were a pair of dark eyes arching in pain, and a child crying brokenly as he lost his father.  
"You seem troubled, brother," a familiar voice hissed over his shoulder. Again, Piccolo jumped.feeling every inch of skin on his body crawl.  
"Would you care to unburden yourself?" Tambourine continued.a faint thread of amusement in his voice at having startled the other.but also a thread of what sounded like compassion.  
Piccolo returned his eyes to the flaring lights. "I don't know."  
"You do not know if you wish my help, or you do not know what you might want help with.or you do not know which way is up? You know better than to be vague with me, brother."  
Piccolo opened his mouth to reply.but closed it without saying anything at all. He could hear a soft whisper of cloth as the other came up beside him.peering out the window with an odd expression of expectation. "Something like this cannot last long.it will cease to trouble you soon."  
The younger demon nodded. Of course it would.but the memory of that wink came back to him, and he couldn't help but wonder if his brother was really.  
He felt a hand brush his cheek - a hand free of the thick leather gloves that Tambourine usually wore. "You are confused, brother.let me make it clear for you."  
Any other time, Piccolo would have disagreed. His brother was empathic.and the thought of having someone else reading not just his thoughts, but his feelings, his innermost workings.made him feel horrifically vulnerable. Still in some cases, it can only help. After a moment or two, the hand withdrew.though he felt no different..  
"It's the younger Saiyajin, brother," Tambourine murmured.tone faintly regretful. "You're rather fixated on him, I'm afraid. It's an easy thing to fall into, as much emphasis as we've placed upon him, but."  
Piccolo twisted to face the other, offering him a crippling glare. "I am NOT fixated. I want the sonofabitch to die, alright? I hate him more than I hate.more than I hate Cymbal!"  
The younger demon heard his brother sigh.and when next Tambourine spoke, his voice was almost soothing. "Of course you do, brother.of course you do. But still you have this fixation. The man is insane.as such, he confuses you with the strangeness of his thoughts when he manages to think at all. You continually try to determine the way in which his mind works and cannot.as such, he makes you feel as though YOU are the one who makes no sense..." the demon shook his head. "That is why you do not kill him, Piccolo.you wait to understand, and you never shall."  
Piccolo blinked, leaning back against the stone. It sounded right.he DID feel confused around Son.always felt confused around him, especially on the occasions where he'd tried to kill him.or had wakened to feel the other nearby, doing him no harm, helping him when he could.  
The younger demon shook his head to clear it.even the chill wind wasn't doing that for him anymore. For some reason, his head was buzzing.his vision ever-so-slightly blurred. "And that's all it is?"  
"That's all it is, brother."  
"If he dies.will that fix it?"  
There was a long silence at this as the older brother turned his eyes again to the light.flashes reflecting perfectly in silver-gray irises. "Most likely not."  
Piccolo bit back a snarl. "Alright.what will?"  
As Piccolo watched, seconds seemed to stretch to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to eternity.like the sand in that blasted hour glass. "You must accept that he means nothing by his gestures.that there is nothing to understand. He is an idiot. Of course.he is also about to die." silver eyes flicking to the window. "So perhaps you'll never have the chance to accept this." And his tone, at the last, is sorrowful.  
With a deep breath, Piccolo climbed wholly into the window sill. "No.I'm going to accept it. I'm going to go.and I'm going to watch him die. I'm going to watch him fight and see that he's everything you say." at this, his tone dipped, "and then I'm going to finally let go of the bastard. Forever"  
Tambourine's voice again.heavy with concern. "Brother.this is dangerous.I'll have to advise against it."  
"No." Piccolo's voice was firm.almost a snap. "I have to do this. Now." And with that, he flung himself into air cold enough to bite through fabric and skin alike, chilling to the bone. The wind was harsh against his face as he flew, tearing furrows into his cheeks.  
He could not see his brother lounging still in the window. He could not see the barely perceptible lines of concern around the mouth shift to a delicate smirk. He could not see the other shake his head at how easily that was done.could not see him draw the shutters on the window closed and click them shut like the doors to a tomb.as they may well have been.  
* * *  
For the first time in his life, Son Goku was giving moderate consideration to just lying down and dying. This impulse lasted only a moment or two, but was enough to shake him nonetheless.  
He'd never heard of anyone being slammed into the ground this many times and surviving, much less getting up to fight again. He wasn't proud of this fact. He was just tired. Nonetheless, he found his feet, turning his head to cough out the dust that clogged his lungs and matted his eyes. Trembling hands helped him to scramble out of the crater which he had created with his own body as he'd landed.  
His brother - no, Raditzu.that man was no brother of his - stood facing him. Ankle-length raven locks fluttered in the breeze, a tumultuous ocean whipping as a background. "Haven't you had enough yet?" the Saiyajin warrior asked in a bored tone. There was barely enough sweat on his bronzed skin to create a gleam.  
Goku growled, the fine hairs on his tail standing straight up. Normally, he'd divest himself of his weights at this point, but he'd already taken them off. He'd begin using his more advanced chi attacks.but he had already been using them.  
There was nothing to do but try harder.so again, he launched himself at his brother.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo arrived on a nearby bluff just in time to see Son Goku plow yet another trench with his shoulder. He couldn't help an involuntary little wince as the other man rebounded off a rock, even as he mentally chalked up points to Raditzu for efficiency.  
Drawing partially behind a rock, the demon noted that the battle must have been very one-sided. Son's frame was a mass of scrapes and bruises; the thick hair was lackluster from dust. And still he was getting up again.  
  
As Piccolo continued to watch, the two warriors closed. They danced around one another for several breaths before Raditzu seemed to disappear.though he was merely moving far faster than he could follow.and reappear behind the smaller warrior. A sharp blow to the spine bent the earth-born Saiyajin nearly double.and Piccolo was moderately surprised that the blow did not snap his back.  
Funny.he'd expected this watching crap to be a lot harder than it actually was. He'd expected to want to participate in the fight. From this distance, though, the sounds and vibrations of the explosions were muted, the flying forms were far away. It didn't seem real at all.just a light show.  
Well, except that he'd heard bones crack even from this distance as Raditzu delivered a sold, surprising sidekick to his longtime rival's ribs.  
  
It was an immense relief to Piccolo that he felt almost no desire to jump in. Why should he have? He'd just attack the winner as planned.it wasn't such a bad plan, now that he thought about it. It was clean and simple and made sense. Too little of his life had made sense for a long time. It was nice to have just one thing be black and white.  
And this was as black and white as it could get. His only moment of real disquiet came when Raditzu and Goku looked one another in the eye, and he recognized the hardneess of it, the suppressed hatred - he and Cymbal had often shared looks such as that. The similarity was eerie.but that wasn't important, now was it?  
Blinking as the Saiyajin faced off against his brother again, he had to wonder, how many times that man could get up. Piccolo watched with one eyeridge raised as Son Goku staggered out of a crater.obviously punch-drunk and exhausted..hitting a stance more by falling into it than by design. Tambourine was right.the man was insane. Piccolo could see fighting until collapse or death when he stood a chance of winning, but Raditzu wasn't even breathing hard. The man was just throwing his life away for no reason whatsoever.  
For the life of him, the demon didn't know why he was staying. It was the most senseless thing he had ever seen..  
And then his ear flicked.  
A child had suddenly started crying.as though he had just at that moment seen what was going on outside the pod. From that distance, even Piccolo could barely make it out, though he definitely heard the words "Daddy" and "don't leave me."  
"I'll get you out, Gohan, don't worry!" The Saiyajin yelled back.and while doing so, he completely missed the fact that Raditzu was attacking again. By that time, Piccolo had lost count of the times he'd seen the man flung away.an aggravating orange-hued gnat that had had the audacity to attack a mastiff.  
"Leave him, fool," Piccolo snapped under his breath, tone dripping impatience. "If he were my son, I'd leave him. It's not like you can help him by dying here. Anyone with any SENSE would cut his losses and run."  
.like my father did.  
.wait a minute.  
Piccolo might have had a serious moment of introspection just then, but the wild light from a chi blast jolted him out of it. He felt his eyes widen unconsciously as the entire world seemed to blaze with fire plucked from the heart of the sun. His head swam, and he was forced to look away for fear that his eyes would be burned out of his skull.  
When he looked back, he saw two things. He saw that Raditzu was unharmed, and he saw that Son Goku was sprawled facedown in the dirt. He did not move, nor did he seem to breathe. If he had chi, Piccolo could not feel it.  
The realization seeped into him slowly.dark tea into light cloth.little tendrils moving up and up until they encircled his thoughts. He had just seen Son Goku die. And he took no joy from it. There was just that strange, sick feeling.and a sudden realization that chilled him to the core.  
Now that he's gone.what use am I? What am I going to do?  
Then his spine stiffened. Perhaps later this would be a problem. For right then.he had a duty to perform. Raditzu had to at least be winded.he would fight him next. Trusting that Tambourine was keeping tabs on the fight and would inform the others that it was time, Piccolo launched himself from the bluff.prepared for the fight of his life.  
  
* * *  
  
Tambourine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.a fine glaze settling over them.frost on a morning-grey lake. For just a moment, he saw through his brother's eyes, saw the warrior that the other was poised to face.  
Ah, Piccolo was expecting him to inform the others.he'd always been a bright boy. A little warped and repressed, perhaps, but bright.  
The demon took a deep breath, mentally reviewing his plans - not the plans he had given Cymbal, but his plans - as though with a fine-toothed comb. He found them sound. Airtight. And very, very reliable.  
Deliberately, he reached over.picked his book up..and set it on his lap. He resumed the chapter where he had left off when he was so unfortunately interrupted. The time would come.but perhaps not for many, many hours.  
Meanwhile.he may as well take advantage of the time off and FINALLY finish this blasted chapter.  
  
* * *  
  
Raditzu never saw him coming. Piccolo managed to land a flying kick to the back of the other man's head, sending him airborne.just in time for the Saiyajin to catch a chi blast between the shoulder blades.  
The demon was fairly sure that the monkey flew a record distance that day. It was really a pity that it didn't incapacitate him.  
Still, the Saiyajin was just a bit slower getting up.from his stance, Piccolo figured that he'd twisted the man's knee badly. He felt a grim little smirk curve his lips even as the other snarled some random insult at him.  
He had a chance. Or at least a better chance. A pity that Son hadn't been around to.ye gods, the man was dead, and he was STILL plaguing his thoughts.  
Fortunately, they were interrupted as Raditzu attacked again.and from then on, life was a blur of flying fists and flying hair and the smell of singed skin.  
  
* * *  
  
Son Goku had to try several times to open his eyes.and when he did, all he could see was an incessant, throbbing light. Ah, so there really WAS one of those.he'd always sort of wondered. It sounded like a really weird way to introduce people to the afterlife.he'd always thought that a "Welcome" mat would've had a much nicer effect with a lot less effort. Then again, he guessed that it was their afterlife.they could run it however they wanted to. With that in mind, he settled in patiently to wait for the harp players.  
When they didn't come after the first few moments.unless he counted an odd ringing sound.he began to suspect that something was wrong. Then he began to hear things.like thuds and whirrs and a familiar, deep baritone using language that would melt most battleships.  
.PICCOLO!...was he dead too? No.not possible, being dead wasn't supposed to hurt.so he must be alive.  
Funny.he'd been fighting his brother.he'd lost, so he should be dead. Which meant that.Piccolo had saved him.and was now fighting Raditzu alone.Son growled..forcing the numbness from his mind.and fumbling at a pocket. With much effort, he managed to cradle a small, smooth object into his palm. With equal difficulty, he managed to force it into his mouth. His big brother was about to get the shock of his life. 


	11. and watch them burn to ash

Some battles are lost before they begin - and some things you can't make up for.  
  
People will tell you that size doesn't matter. They'll tell you that technique means more than strength or speed. These people are wrong. Technique makes the difference between two people of equal size, speed, and skill. Technique cannot make up for half a foot, a hundred pounds, and well nigh two thousand points in terms of raw chi.  
  
Piccolo's first kick proved utterly futile.the Saiyajin absorbed it with barely a grunt. His first punch was deflected. His second, the same - all steered aside by the simplest of gestures, as if Raditzu's arm were a sword being used to parry. He jerked back quickly when those things happened, sliding out with feet together or while throwing random kicks to give the other no chance to grab him. Technique. Otherwise he would have been dead much sooner.  
  
Some things cannot be changed. One is the Law of Averages. Piccolo felt a hand close around his wrist - it hurt, wrenching a snarl from him as he was jerked forward. Automatically, his other hand came up to try to snap the elbow-joint of his assailant, but he could only curse as he felt a hand close around his thumb, wrenching it up and around, twisting his arm behind his back as if by magic. He stumbled as his momentum was thwarted, nearly losing his feet for a heart-stopping, stomach-turning moment, remaining upright more by luck and stubbornness than by skill.  
  
At a second twist, pain shot through his shoulder, and too-warm breath brought words to the delicate curve of his ear. "I'm getting bored, Namek" the Saiyajin all but purred. "Don't make me bored." Piccolo could feel his arm being rotated farther, near to snapping, a branch forced back too far.  
  
He turned his head sharply, snapping teeth almost into the face of his opponent. The Saiyajin recoiled like surprised viper, even as he wrenched harder - and Piccolo DID feel something snap, swallowing a gasp right along with the blood he drew from his cheek when he bit it to keep quiet. Blood and gasp were equally bitter. "Damn you," he snarled, trying to lean forward to upset his assailant's balance.but the Saiyajin was bigger, stronger, and he was pulling back. It was like trying to upset a redwood with a shovel.  
  
"Thank you." And even this relatively childish taunt was delivered with an odd, laughing sort of lilt that made the demon's skin crawl. He wondered briefly - very briefly - at the odd chance that had made this thing brother to Son Goku. The hand that wasn't being used to hold on to Piccolo's wrist was bracketed around his torso, securing the demon's other arm firmly against his side.and Piccolo could feel the Saiyajin's massive hand knotting into the fabric right over his midsection, pinning him against the other. A bear's paw could not have been more solid.but he didn't panic yet. This wasn't the first time he'd been in a hold, far from it.and if anyone should know how to get out of one, it should be him.  
  
"So tell me," Raditzu murmured, lowering his head until it came over Piccolo's shoulder.an action which let the other's hair cascade down Piccolo's back. He'd never actually felt hair before.it tingled like cobwebs, and he barely stifled a shudder. "What's it take to make you scream, huh?" And the hand over his abdomen clenched a bit more, tugging material taut, a faint, static vibration promising a budding energy blast.  
  
For the first time in years, the demon swallowed his pride entirely- gods, but the blood went down easier - and relaxed in the other's grasp, letting his head droop in an attitude of defeat. This seemed to suit the Saiyajin. He chuckled as though he'd been expecting as much and, much like a cat with a mouse, loosened his grip just slightly. Piccolo knew full well what he was doing - he was taunting him. Encouraging him to struggle, daring him to try to get away. He ground his teeth, but did not move.  
  
"Should've known a slug wouldn't have any real fight to him." The Saiyajin sounded more amused than disappointed.twisting his arm a bit farther.but he did something else as well. HE relaxed.Piccolo could feel an immediate difference in the muscles behind him.feel the other settling, flat-footed.thinking that his captive is spent, and getting ready to play.  
  
Which was exactly what Piccolo had been waiting for.  
  
* * *  
  
A second is a lifetime in a chi-battle; a fact that was driven home to Son Goku while he waited for the senzou to work. Twenty seconds to find one in his pocket. Ten seconds to chew. Two to swallow. Five waiting for it to work.all seconds that he wouldn't have if Piccolo weren't fighting Raditzu.  
  
An eerie silence descended then, stifling cotton all around him just as the senzou worked. Son very carefully opened one eye to see what was happening because.it was so very quiet. Battles shouldn't be quiet.  
  
It took his eye a minute to focus, and when it did, his heart immediately jumped through the roof of his mouth at what he saw. The two of them locked together, the demon (or whatever he was) snarling, straining, trying ineffectually to writhe his way out of the other's grasp - all of which Raditzu seemed to find terribly amusing.  
  
Goku bit back a very furious, very unfamiliar, very Saiyajin sound with more than a little difficulty even as he felt a sort of twist in his gut that he'd long since come to expect in a fight.a sudden, near-crippling dose of worry as he realized that, with the two of them so close together, he could do nothing to help. An energy blast would definitely hurt Piccolo more than Raditzu if it hit both of them.and attacking his brother would probably just make Raditzu kill Piccolo to give himself one less opponent to worry about.  
  
It was the same feeling that Goku had gotten when he and Tien were fighting Daimao. The same feeling he'd gotten when Tien was fighting his own, one- sided battle with Cymbal, the same one he'd felt for Krillen when the smaller warrior had been taking on Taopaipai, and in many ways the same one that he'd felt when Raditzu had been attacking his family.  
  
Funny, he'd never really expected to feel it for Piccolo.but there it was, a block of solid lead, driving in right between his stomach and his heart. Get away from him, Pic, he mouthed, hand flexing and unflexing as he began to gather his chi. Just get away, and I can help you.  
  
Goku knew that Piccolo couldn't hear him, probably couldn't even see him given which way they were facing, but he could see that he was trying to do just that.twisting left and right, snapping teeth at his assailant, even trying to pitch the larger man forward over his shoulder, all to no avail.and Goku was in an excellent position to hear a distinct snap as the Saiyajin twisted the green warrior's arm farther in response. Let him go! He wanted to shout, but managed not to - that would only make it worse. Piccolo had to do this himself - all HE could do was lie very still, hope not to be noticed, and wait for an opening.  
  
He would wonder later why what he saw next had effected him so strongly - wonder about it for years afterward.  
  
He saw his arch nemesis of well on to ten years.give up. And it was a terrible thing to see. All the fight left him in a weary sort of sigh as he almost seemed to shrink back into himself, a fern leaf collapsing for having gone too long without seeing the sun. Even his head drooped, antennae falling down in such a way as to hide the normally penetrating eyes, which were clenched shut anyway. It seemed to Son that he could even see him shaking - in fear or impotent rage, anyone's guess - though at this distance, such a thing should be impossible to see.  
  
He hoped - hoped so much - that the green warrior was just taking a breather, but as the seconds stretched together, he realized that this wasn't the case. Son bit his lip hard, feeling an odd sort of burning at the corners of his eyes for the other.practically grief. Come on, Pic, you can't quit now.just get away from him.I KNOW you can, Pic, come on.  
  
Son could hear Raditzu's chuckle very clearly from where he was lying - hear it with a sense of utter outrage - but still, he couldn't change it, and the helplessness was worst of all. He could do nothing but watch as the older Saiyajin drew his captive a bit closer, murmuring in his ear.and something about it seemed wrong to Goku in a way that he could never have explained. Something about it made his stomach lurch like it always did right before someone he cared about died.but differently. This seemed.worse, somehow.  
  
Then it happened, and happened so quickly that he nearly missed it - Piccolo lashed out with a back kick that struck Raditzu's knee cap, even as he twisted in a way that would have made most gymnasts blanche, wrenching himself away. Ton could see trails of indigo falling like flower petals down his arms, Raditzu's nails having left their marks as he tried to hold on. But he was free - and the smirk that he flashed the Saiyajin was enough to tell Son that he'd been planning it all along.  
  
Son burst into a grin borne entirely of relief even as he let fly the Kame Hame Ha.  
  
* * *  
  
"Come along boy - this really is no place for children."  
  
Gohan had heard a voice like that before, but only when he was having nightmares.it was the sort of serpentine hiss he would associate with the boogey man. He looked up from his quiet sobbing, brushing his dampened hair away from his eyes, and squinted blearily through the rose-colored glass.  
  
There was a man standing there who was both very like and very unlike Piccolo.  
  
He was green like Piccolo, if a little darker in tone, and he was very tall - he had the same, delicately curved ears, the same antennae, probably the same fangs - but there, the resemblance ended. He was as slim and quiet as a lamppost's shadow, though perhaps less expressive, and the hand that he used to motion Gohan toward him was as supple and scarce as a skeleton's.  
  
Still, he was better than Raditzu, so Gohan eased forward, putting his hands against the deceptively-cheery glass that made the man outside seem closer to black than to green. "I can't get out," he whispered hoarsely.  
  
The man smiled oddly, and Gohan fell through the glass, landing in a heap outside the ship. He would have cried, but he was out of tears, only managing a sniffle or two.  
  
"Come along, child," the man said again - and this time the voice was more soothing.  
  
Gohan's mother had been very firm on the "don't talk to strangers" part of his education. Piccolo had been different because he'd heard of him before.but this was the strangest stranger that Gohan had ever seen. The boy was visibly torn between fear and what he'd been told was right, settling on a compromise. "W.will you take me to my dad?" he asked hopefully, trying to blink some of the tears out of his eyes.  
  
The man tilted his head toward a nearby ridge.eerie lights flashed above it in shades of blue and orange. "Your father's quite busy, child."  
  
"Will he be okay?"  
  
The scarecrow man seemed to think about this. "More or less.but he'd like you to come with me. He wants you very far away from his elder brother."  
  
Under the circumstances, Gohan was more than willing to believe him. 


	12. There's no good way to end this

"You know," Goku muttered as he watched the smoke from his last attack trailing in wisps through the ebony strains of his brother's hair, "that really should have worked."  
  
"Tell that to him," the demon growled, half leaping, and half stumbling to Goku's side. Son could see this close the fine sheen of sweat across the green warrior's face, and though it struck him as odd, he thought that he could catch the edgy scent of adrenaline – a throwback to roots he was only beginning to realize that he had.  
  
"Um...I don't think he cares, Pic, but it was a nice thought."  
  
Yet again, Son found himself on the end of a look that would have wilted a cactus. The demon didn't even bother to answer him, pulling into a defensive position, fangs bright in the growing light from Raditzu's aura – and Goku figured that he'd best do the same. "I don't suppose you've got any ideas."  
  
"I've got one," Piccolo answered, but there was something so cold in his tone as to rob it of any hope it might once have conveyed, leaving it to fall flat on his ears. Son would have liked to have looked at him then, but he didn't dare turn his eyes away from the clearing cloud.  
  
Because Raditzu was grinning at him.  
  
There was something monumental about the situation; something in the way the man walked, massive strides designed to eat ground, shoulders back, tree trunks of legs planting firmly with every step. This was a man made to destroy worlds – the cruel smile that twisted his lips was evidence enough of that.  
  
"Alright, Pic," Son expelled in a very low voice. "Whatever you've got, we'd better try it."  
  
"It's not what I've got, monkey. It's what you've got."  
  
At that statement, Son did turn his head, incomprehension written across the smooth planes of his face.  
  
Piccolo's eyes were deadly serious when they met his. "You're the one who's gonna have to fight him. Alone."  
  
* * *  
  
Alone...he felt so alone.  
  
Gohan could safely say that he had never been this afraid in his life. He didn't like where he was – it was a cold place, made of stone and silence, wrapped all around in shadows. It was so dark that the towering, ebony-clad wraith that walked before him was hard to find if he looked away even for a moment. Fear thrummed in his throat that the taller man would turn a corner or walk too fast, and he would lose him...  
  
A pair of silver eyes became visible in even the barely-perceptible light in the corridor...two flat, distant stars from between wavery clouds. "Do not be afraid, child. I know these walks very well – no one will harm you here."  
  
Gohan swallowed convulsively. "But I...I can't see, sir..."  
  
"Catch hold of my cloak, and you'll know exactly where I am, won't you."  
  
The child had to reach three times to find it the edge of it; it was like feeling around in darkened water for the pebbles at the bottom, and in the end, hardly worth it. The fabric was cool to his fingertips and soft to the touch. . . just more shadows to hold onto. "Th-thankyou, sir."  
  
"Of course, child." And he continued walking. Gohan had to nearly jog to keep even with the man's long strides, even when they were slowed. His young legs strained with the effort of moving so quickly, and threatened to cave whenever they would pause.  
  
"Where are we going, sir?"  
  
"Somewhere. . . safe, child. Somewhere very safe."  
  
"Will my daddy be there?"  
  
"Eventually."  
  
"And Piccolo-san?"  
  
"Yes, of course. And. . . Piccolo-san."  
  
Gohan didn't like the way that this man said "Piccolo-san." His voice had an eerie feeling to it. He decided not to ask him about it again.  
  
"THERE you are," snapped a voice that made Gohan jump – a sharp growl that was at once exactly like Piccolo's and nothing like Piccolo's. Instinctively, he ducked behind the hem of the cloak as if it would somehow shield him from this newcomer, this massive creature that he did not recognize.  
  
"Was I supposed to be somewhere else?" Tambourine answered, tone glib. He was not afraid of the other man – Gohan could tell that immediately in the way that any child would instinctively know. He stepped a little closer to the man who had brought him here, trying very hard not to make any noise. His nostrils twitched at the smell of rose petals and, faintly, the scent of old books.  
  
"You know what I'm talking about. I want to know what's going on." The twin setting suns of the newcomers eyes were narrowed to mere slits...and it seemed almost to Gohan that the could feel the other's anger, not in waves, but in hammer strokes. It was strong enough to give him a headache.  
  
"Ah, that. Well, currently, you and I are having a less than friendly discussion that I'm not entirely sure that I can follow...and that is all I know." He offered the other a slight, differential bow.  
  
"Tambourine..." this last growled out like a promise of death. "I'm missing something. And you're going to tell me what it is."  
  
"It seems to me that you're missing a number of somethings...care to be more specific, brother-mine?"  
  
The other was quiet for a moment after that...nails drumming against his arm, faster and faster. He's nervous! Gohan realized with a start, eyes widening at the other being. Something's making him nervous...  
  
Before he could wonder what it was, the ground jumped underneath him, and he fell, covering the back of his head with his hands, and not caring whether or not the rumble covered his semi-muffled whimper. There was a terrible feeling of electricity, just like there is during a thunder storm in an open field, and a feeling of the air rippling and buckling all around him – he was reminded, for one crazy moment, of a time when he had accidentally fallen into a river...  
  
And then it was over, leaving the stone around them to tremble in its wake.  
  
* * *  
  
At the first tremor, Cymbal spat out a particularly impressive curse, widening his stance and throwing his arms just slightly out for balance's sake. Unlike Gohan, he had no doubt whatsoever about what that tremor was – no earthquake, no eruption, no sudden rending of the world. Though he had no real chi senses to speak of, and very little in the way of telepathy, that sudden, electric feeling in the air could be only one thing. A blast. A massive one. One the likes of which he hadn't felt since his father's death, or maybe even then.  
  
As soon as the world returned more or less to its natural order, he rounded sharply on his brother. "What in the HELL was that all about?"  
  
Tambourine was very complacently brushing a bit of ceiling-dust from his sleeves. "A chi blast, I would think."  
  
Cymbal was reaching the absolute end of his patience, which was tantamount to the little bit of flame at the end of a fuse finally coming to the dynamite. He flexed his claws and briefly soothed his flaring temper with the mental image of his brother's head on a stake. Preferably with the eyes gouged out and the mouth stitched shut...  
  
Inhale. Exhale. "Tambourine..."  
  
The slighter demon met his eyes – and there were twin pinpricks of red in the pupils. It took Cymbal a moment to realize that it was his own eyes he was seeing there, his own reflection, and no silent rage on his brother's part.  
  
He was almost disappointed.  
  
"Brother," Tambourine said in a tone only slightly less exasperated than his own. "Why don't you open a window." And with that, he walked on, hands tucked neatly in his sleeves.  
  
Cymbal felt his lip pulling back over his fangs, and in a rare and monumental act of control, pulled it back down. He pivoted on his heel in true military manner, storming back up the corridor until he came to one of the massive, bolted windows, flinging it open with a very satisfying CRASH against the old stone of the walls.  
  
In the southeast, still reflected on the snow, a great light was only just beginning to dim – the air wavering there still, like the air above asphalt in the summertime, trembling with unnatural heat.  
  
It looked like the only way to find out what strange things were passing. . .was to go find them himself.  
  
* * *  
  
Piccolo picked his way cautiously over the churned-up earth, skidding down the last little slope to where he could see a bit of orange flapping in the breeze. He made it a point to step on Raditzu's body on the way, planting a heel firmly just above the basketball-sized hole in the Saiya- jin's torso. The body didn't so much as twitch, and so the demon permitted himself to give in fully to his first, instinctive relief. The alien was dead.  
  
And his enemy-temporarily-ally really wasn't much better off. Piccolo stopped, staring down at him, arms crossed, expression blank.  
  
Son opened one eye, irrepressible grin still curving up one corner of his lips, the corner that wasn't dripping blood. "Did it work?"  
  
"It worked."  
  
"So he's dead?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Great. So, you gonna kill me now?" And there was something almost joking in the man's tone.  
  
Piccolo scowled, deeply. "I'm thinking about it."  
  
Son actually chuckled – very softly, probably due to the broken ribs. "Well, you get back to me on that, right? I think I'm just gonna take a little nap right now." The eye closed, and he was out...no doubt unconscious.  
  
Which was good for him, because Piccolo would probably have kicked him for his insolence otherwise.  
  
"I hate you," he growled without any real conviction. "Damn you, I really do."  
  
Which was why he'd waited a split second on that Makkenkosappo...why he'd waited for Raditzu to drop the other man's body before firing.  
  
"Pathetic," he muttered. And didn't kill him in the next second. And kept right on not killing him for another minute after that. Drained, he told himself. I used too much energy on the other monkey. No chi left.  
  
Of course, at this point, he could probably just put a foot down on the other's throat and smothered him. . .but he pretended not to think of that. And he was almost relieved when something gave him an excuse to stop dwelling on it.  
  
An approaching chi. A high one – and fresh, untapped. He recognized it a bare second later, and ground his back teeth together in irritation. He'd forgotten that he'd actually sent word for that psychotic...  
  
And in the back of his mind, a faint bit of suspicion flared. What had taken so long. He hated his brother, hated him with a passion, but at the same time, it just wasn't LIKE Cymbal to dally when there was fighting to be done. There was no real reason that it should have taken him this long, if Tambourine had told him about...  
  
He brushed that thought aside to study in detail later...right then, he had a problem. One of blasted moral problems that he was having more and more of lately. He found himself glaring down at the once-thought-human at his feet. "I should kill you. It'd be far more honorable than what HE would do with you."  
  
And that at last made sense to EVERY part of him, even the small, warring parts that he no longer understood. Cymbal hated this man more than he ever had, for reasons that Piccolo neither understood nor cared to understand – he'd rip him apart piece by piece, and that if Son was lucky.  
  
But smothering him still seemed wrong. A chi blast would be right, but Piccolo wasn't up to that yet. Maybe slitting his throat with a claw? Maybe collapsing his chest, or...no, none of it seemed right.  
  
He was dimly aware that he was behaving irrationally, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Death was death, after all. Did it really matter how it came?  
  
Damn it all, he didn't have time for this. With a deep, frustrated growl, he actually kicked the man – right into some nearby shrubbery that had miraculously escaped destruction, hiding him from view. Then, with sharp, angry motions, he drew a bright, indigo line across his own palm with one of his talons. . .sprinkling blood liberally around said brush to disguise the man's living scent. . . and there would be enough Saiya-jin blood around that Cymbal shouldn't think twice about it.  
  
Piccolo then turned to face the direction from which his brother would come, arms crossed over his chest, chin resting almost on his collarbone...and fixing the northern sky with a definitive glare.  
  
He was tired, he was weakened from his experience, and he was harboring a silent fury with himself that matched nothing that he'd ever felt before. Maybe he could fight if need be, maybe not. . . but there was no fear in him. Not anymore.  
  
One who deserves death should not shy from it when it comes. 


	13. So maybe we shouldn't try

Piccolo tilted his head back as he watched his eldest brother come in to land. Impatient as always, the other didn't even slow his descent for an easier landing, choosing instead to hit the ground at a run. Three strides had him slowed enough to stop...and a mere arm's length from his somewhat battered brother.

"You're late," Piccolo growled after a moment.

"And you're insolent," Cymbal growled in return, glaring down his nose at him as if he were some sort of insect.

A long silence stretched after that...which, for Piccolo, was possibly the worst thing that could have happened. He was still half-choked on adrenaline from the earlier fight; that, combined with the certain possibility of death here, was making his head buzz.

The namekseijin would have welcomed a battle then and there if it meant that he wouldn't have to stand another minute, holding his breath.

He felt like screaming when, after several seconds...Cymbal broke their staring standoff, turning his head to look at the body sprawled out on the ground...all that would remain of Raditsu. "You killed him."

"Yeah."

"And he killed Son Goku?"

Piccolo snorted. "You don't see him, do you?"

For a moment, he thought that his brother actually WAS about to attack him. Cymbal's head snapped around so that he could glare at him anew...his talons flexing and unflexing in a ritual that Piccolo knew well. It usually came right before someone started bleeding. "If he's dead," the older demon began, one corner of his lips curling up in a decidedly unfriendly way, "then I have absolutely no use for you anymore, boy. Remember that."

Piccolo could feel a snarl twisting his face – he did nothing to stop it. "All I need to remember is that you left me for dead once...brother."

At that, Cymbal actually laughed...an insult that set Piccolo's teeth on edge. "If you'd been me – you tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing."

"Look," Piccolo hissed after a moment – in which he realized that he indeed WOULD have left his brother, had circumstances been reversed – "I don't have time to stand around and argue with the likes of you. If you're going to fight me, do it."

"Little brother – you're not worth my time," Cymbal answered with a casual, two-fingered wave. "You come find me...when you're ready. I have things to do."

The force of Cymbal's takeoff was enough to blow Piccolo's antennae back, though he wouldn't give the other the satisfaction of turning his head away. He merely slitted his eyes against the blowing dust, watching the crimson spark of his brother's chi vanish into the clouds.

Piccolo would have no way of knowing that his brother had, in that moment, been almost afraid of him. He only knew that it was one more grain of sand in the hourglass that marked how long the two of them would be able to live in the same space, during the same time.

_It'll happen soon, _he thought, rolling the taste of blood around on his tongue, and wondering where it had come from. To tell the truth – he wasn't looking forward to it. The worst kind of fight that a man can have is against an opponent that he knows very well...and who knows him just as well if not better. There are no surprises. Just a very great deal of pain.

At the sudden, explosive sound of a curse, Piccolo very nearly jumped out of his skin. It took him more than a few moments to realize that the _voice _had been Son Goku's...because he had heard the man actually USE profanity perhaps once or twice in his life.

Which meant that whatever was wrong was probably VERY wrong. "What is it NOW?" he snapped over one shoulder. And when there was no response, he turned on his heel and limped...very heavily...over to the sound of his partner of sorts.

Son had apparently come to at some point during the discussion, because he was certainly conscious and, to Piccolo's eyes, as coherent as the man could ever be said to be in the first place. He was also, the onetime demon noted wryly, starting to positively GLOW with anger. Son Goku wasn't saying a word. He was merely standing, bolt-still and quivering, eyes fixed in a stone-melting glare on the invader's space pod. It was at once very amusing and very...disquieting to see his onetime rival in such a state. For once, Son Goku looked positively murderous. Dangerous.

Piccolo stood silently behind him – perhaps an arm's length behind, so that the Saiyajin's shadow fell across the fronts of his shoes. The sun was in his left eye, leaving burning highlights of flame on his cheeks, over his shoulders, down his arm, matching the blood-spatters on Son Goku's arms, matching the deep purple of his uniform to the sunset orange of the Kamesennin gi. It gave him an eerie, unsettled feeling, as if he were missing some message that the gods were trying to give him...

And then he saw the pod door, wide open – marked with a small scrap of midnight-hued cloth, caught on the door's latch, waving like a snake's tail. Wordlessly, he reached out and took that single, black slip of cloth in his hand. It was warm from the sun, warm and velvety, and yet inexplicably light...

"Ah, hell," he muttered.

"I'm going after him," Son Goku growled. When Piccolo glanced at him to see whether he could possibly be serious, he noticed that the man's tail was bristling as if he'd just stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. Even gentle-tempered, softhearted fools had a limit to how much frustration they could absorb at one time, he decided wryly.

"Son, for the gods' sakes, can't you just have another kid?" he asked.

Son Goku shot him a dire look. "I hope that wasn't supposed to be funny."

"I was serious," the namekseijin growled in return.

Goku was quiet at that for a long moment. "You know, Piccolo, there are times when I think you're almost getting there, and then..." but he trailed off, and he shook his head. And began walking away, toward a more open space.

Piccolo felt his nose wrinkle slightly. "And just where do you think _you're_ going?"

"I already told you – I'm going after him. You can come if you want."

Piccolo picked his jaw back up, staring after the other incredulously...from the ragged clothing...to the limp...to the blood still pouring from a cut on his cheek. "Like that? You won't even get through the damned door, you idiot. Not to mention that everyone in the whole stronghold'd give his left arm to kill you..."

"I don't care, Pic," Goku responded, moving toward a more level spot – for an easier takeoff. He didn't even pause.

"Five minutes," Piccolo snapped. "I give you five minutes before you get yourself killed."

"You...could come too, Pic."

It was sad, the onetime demon reflected, that the other's completely inane comments didn't even surprise him anymore. "On a cold day in..."

"...Hell," Piccolo growled under his breath, crouching on top of one of the many great battlements of his family's stronghold. He could feel already-injured muscles tightening in the cold like soaked leather, and found himself hoping that he was only imagining the ache in his joints.

_How did I let myself get conned into this, _he wondered sourly, heaving a frustrated sigh, and watching the mist spill from between his clenched fangs like smoke from a long cigar...drifting away on the frigid air. Gods, he didn't even remember_ agreeing_ to it...

_That freak of a monkey's doing something to me, _he decided after a moment or two...turning his head as a particularly strong gust of wind blew a fistful of diamond-hard snow into his face. _I don't know what it is. But as soon as this is over, I'm getting as far away from him as I possibly can...at least, until I remember what...what I think. _

But not right then, Right then...he had to watch the skies...and make sure that neither Cymbal nor Piano nor Drum happened on to that tower before Son Goku had had a chance to seek out his child there.

For some reason...Piccolo was very glad that it was the Saiyajin, not he, who would be climbing down to the bottom of that tower. The bottom part of that _thing _was unearthly cold...and close...and he had a sick feeling somewhere between his heart and his gut whenever he went near it.

Not that he was afraid. Just...leery. Wary. And repulsed in a way that he could never have hoped to explain. Especially not to an idiot like Son Goku.

"You'd better be back out here in fifteen minutes," he snarled at the stone beneath him. "I'm not waiting any longer than that."

And, drawing his cloak around him, he settled in for a very long wait.


	14. But we see the end is coming

Son Goku wondered if he would ever be warm again.

It was cold in the lower hallways – cold in the same way that a tomb is cold, and each descending spiral of the staircase seemed to drop the air to a new degree of frigid. His lungs burned in the cold, his new bruises ached to the bones, and each step felt like it was turning his legs to ice, jarring them, breaking them like ice icicles flung down from a rooftop.

Only the adrenaline-flagged pumping of his heart kept him warm – and that only barely. He had to stop at the bottom of the staircase, half-doubled, steaming at the mouth like a chain smoker. His harsh pants echoed horribly in the long corridor, as the hallway seemed to rip each one violently from his lungs, leaving them tattered and aching. Tambourine would hear him coming. How could he not? The dead would be able to hear him.

The dead...

Son closed his eyes. He had only really seen this particular demon once...never well. And that had been a very, very long time ago.

He had been little more than a boy moving out of childhood...but not quite moved away from the notion that people were really good at heart, and that somehow, everything would come right, no matter what anybody did.

Just like the tournament, the yearly Budokai that had always ended so well, no matter how awfully it would begin. He remembered...whistling cheerfully as he walked down the hallway...nothing like this hallway. It was a big, open thing, styled of columns and paper walls, with windows every four strides. He could still recall the warm feeling on the left side of his face as sunset poured like honey through the open windows, lighting everything in dusky shades of orange and rose.

"Hey, Krillin!" He'd called ahead to the dressing room. His older friend had done very well, and he hadn't had a chance to congratulate him yet. He could feel himself grinning wider at how proud the other must be of himself; oh, he'd pretend it didn't matter, he'd wave it off, but Goku knew that the former monk was actually very nervous about his fighting abilities. His bravado masked a veritable sea of insecurity...but this tournament would have helped that.

"Krillen, are you there?" he'd called as he walked around the last corner.

What he saw next would stay with him for the rest of his life. He remembered thinking that a crow had gotten into the dressing room, because he could see a trace of fluttering black, just over a bench...

But then the crow had stood. It had unfolded gradually, like a fern frond, the once-kneeling figure gaining its feet as if in slow motion. It stepped back, leaving behind it on the floor, in a pool of sunset-light, a figure that looked like a broken china doll, eyes fixed and staring, a painted trail of red under the pale curve of his cheek.

"Krillin," he had hissed, feeling horror knot in his gut just behind the knot of his belt. Then, more loudly, "You KILLED him!"

The strange figure – such a tall, slim thing, jet black even in the fiery light from the window – turned its head. Its face was green, but not the green of grass or moss. It was the green of a dark pine forest, just before the shadows grow too deep to see the sky. And its eyes were crackling ice. "He was in the way," a remorseless voice answered.

Son closed his eyes, shaking his head. That was one person– perhaps THE one person – that he would feel no remorse for killing. Balling his half-numbed hands into fists, he continued down the hallway, eyes narrowed in a fierce mask of concentration...

He found the room easily. It was the only one that had light spilling from around the doorjamb. The only closed door. The Saiyajin took a deep breath, feeling again the icy air raking his insides, and kicked that door as hard as he physically could.

He had not expected it to give so easily.

The massive, oaken construct that had once been the door flew across the room without ever touching the ground, shattering like a sheet of glass into a thousand pieces to clatter discordantly to the floor...the fearful echo of the collision so powerful in the corridor that Son Goku flinched visibly. _Oops..._

Well – if Daimaou no Tanbarin had not heard that, then he was either deaf or somewhere very, very far away. Son decided to make the best of it, flipping through the door and landing in his deepest defensive posture, prepared for any one of a thousand confrontations.

What he saw instead was his enemy sitting at his desk, an elbow on the hard surface, his cheek resting in his palm, and his eyes fastened rather wryly on his guest. He did not look noticeably different from the last that Goku had seen of him...just a bit older, perhaps, but still wraith-thin...a bit of cloak spilling oil-slick around the desk. There was no emotion in his eyes – no fear, no anger – yet his mouth was pressed thin in a vague attitude of disapproval.

Goku had the brief but ridiculous impulse to go out and enter again, to give the other a chance to react a bit more appropriately...but decided that if the first entry hadn't gotten the other on his feet, then another was unlikely to. Instead, the warrior raised his fists a fraction of an inch and said in his most threatening voice, "Where is my..."

He was interrupted as the slender Namekseijin slammed his book shut with his free hand – the resonating THUD causing him to jump. "So tell me," Tambourine asked in a low, whispery voice that dripped irritation, "what is this fascination that you warriors have with breaking things?"

Goku blinked. "I..."

Tambourine stood slowly. "Do you have any _idea _how hard it is to get contractors in a place like this?"

"What's a...I mean, well, no, but I'm here for my..."

By then, the namekseijin had stepped around the desk with slow, gliding strides to stand beside what was left of the door...nudging a splinter distastefully with a soft-soled boot. "And I suppose," he continued dryly, "that _you _would be some sort of expert on home-repair?"

Goku was remembering a time when Bulma had tried to explain something called insurance policies to him. This was that same feeling – that miserable sensation of being utterly lost in a conversation. "Well...no, I..."

"Of course not." Seeming more than a bit exasperated, the mage folded his hands carefully within his sleeves.

"Look, I just came for my son..." And with saying those words, a bit of Son Goku's righteous anger returned, his footing along with it. His voice gained strength as he continued. "Where is he? What did you do with him?"

The Namekseijin turned very, very slowly to face him, meeting his eyes. "In the next room – sleeping, if you haven't sent him through the roof with your...shall we say...less than subtle entry," he said coolly.

This was not what Son Goku had been expecting. Again, he felt that uncomfortable confusion, making him unsure, making his fists drop a bit. "If you've hurt him..."

He was brought up short when he saw a brief expression of hurt pass across the mage's face...stifled quickly, but he could not deny that he had seen it. Before he could regain his momentum enough to ask what had happened, the dark-clad figure turned away from him, the cape rustling softly on the stones like leaves in autumn. "He is unharmed. Take him, if that's what you came for," the other murmured stiffly, as if somehow offended.

Goku bit his lip. Half afraid that this was some sort of trick, he shifted nervously from one foot to the other...but Tambourine hadn't attacked him, and if his son was really alright... "But I thought..."

"Thought what, warrior – that I'd eaten him?"

"No, but...I mean, after what you did to Krillen..." there, he felt better, he knew exactly what had happened with Krillen... "after you killed him and...well what in Kami's name am I SUPPOSED to think?"

For this speech, he received a very incredulous look from the dark-clad namekseijin. The other turned...slowly, like the moon revolving...to face him. "It's like some sort of...fairy tale to you, isn't it," he murmured slowly, as if trying to grasp something. To this, Goku had no answer. He had never known a bad guy to speak this way before. There were no threats, no promises that he would be destroyed – in fact, this Namekseijin spoke more like Kami Sama than like any villain he'd ever met. It was painfully confusing – so he said nothing, and after a moment, Tambourine continued. "Tell me...why did I kill him?"

"Because you wanted to?" Goku ventured hesitantly after a few moments.

"Because I had no choice," the mage corrected, with just the faintest touch of bitterness.

"Don't even tell me he attacked you, Tambourine. That's a lie, and you know it – you came for the dragonball, just like everybody else, and he had it, so you killed him for it."

The mage's lips curled up slowly into a smirk that had nothing to do with humor – the sort that Goku often saw on Piccolo's face when he was in some kind of great pain. "Yes, Son Goku. I killed him for it. I am not proud of that."

"Then why would you..."

"While under orders, I did a number of things that I am not proud of."

Goku wished desperately that the other man would slow down a little. "Orders?" he managed, hating the way that he sounded utterly baffled...

"My father. Surely you knew him," the other continued, irony heavy in his voice.

"But if it bothered you, why would you..."

"Look at me," the other replied coldly. "Look." He spread his hands slightly, inviting scrutiny. And Goku did look, though he wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. The other seemed well enough, except of course for the way he was dressed, and that for as tall as he was, he really wasn't all that particularly big – actually, he was kind of thin and....oh.

Calmly and deliberately, the namekseijin continued, "He could have broken me over his knee if he had so wished...and we both know that, had I disobeyed him, nowhere on earth would have been distant enough to hide me from him. Yes, I killed your friend for the dragonball that he carried. My orders were to take it, and he interfered."

"But..." Goku struggled for a moment, finally coming up with, "to kill someone else, just so you can live...that's wrong anyway."

"Wrong?" Tambourine asked softly, raising an eyeridge at him as most people would raise an eyebrow. "This, warrior, is something that you would never understand. You, after all – have never been in a situation where you truly did not have a choice."

"So...if you had it to do over again, you wouldn't kill him?"

The slender namekseijin rolled his eyes. "If I had it to do over again, I would do precisely what I did."

"Then you're still..."

"You misunderstand." And then...there was something a little regretful in the other's voice. "You have not seen me in over ten years, have you?"

"Well, no."

"And in all that time...have you known me to kill anyone?"

"Well...." Son bit his lip again. "No."

"So there you are. Without my sire's influence, I have no reason to harm anyone."

"Then...why did you take my son?"

Tambourine's head tilted just slightly to one side...those lifeless, silver eyes arching just slightly. "Did you think that you were going to win?"

"Not the whole time, no..."

"Neither did I."

"So...you took him because..."

The Namekseijin shrugged. "Consider it a...peace offering."

At that, Son Goku was truly and utterly dumbfounded. "So you don't want to fight, then?"

Tambourine shot him a look that was actually very similar to the way that Kami Sama looked at him on occasion. "Not...particularly, no."

"Ever?"

"Answer me this, Son Goku," Tambourine murmured instead of offering him a direct answer. "If you can believe that my brother can change – then why can't you believe the same of me?"

"I...guess I can. Now." Goku answered...and then he couldn't help it. He broke into a grin. "Thanks...I mean, for everything...I mean..."

Tambourine raised a hand. "Enough – you had best be gone from here before my elder brother decides to visit. There are a few things," he continued, looking pointedly at the imploded door, "that he is bound to notice."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about...okay, okay, I'm going," he added quickly as he walked into the next room...where he did find his son, sleeping as promised...curled like a small cat on a couch of sorts. Goku could not stop the warm grin that pulled his lips up as he saw that Gohan seemed completely unhurt...clutching a blanket and afraid, yes, but not hurt. All of the strength of anger went out of him at the sight of his child, replaced with tiredness and relief that was warm even in the Tsumi Tsubris. Careful not to wake him, he gathered the sleeping boy in his arms...Gohan had always been a sound sleeper, so he thought nothing of his ability to sleep through his entry.

He wanted nothing so much as to take his son home, and to sleep himself. Still smiling pleasantly, he walked back through the study, where Tambourine had returned to his desk. He stopped long enough to smile at the other, genuinely, the grin going all the way to his eyes. "Thankyou."

The other did not even look up from his book. "My pleasure."

Son started to go, pausing only in the slightly jagged doorway to ask, "Hey. Cymbal's not going to...I mean, he doesn't..."

At that, Tambourine's lips curled up just ever-so-slightly into a smirk that, for some reason, sent a chill down Goku's spine. "My elder brother, for all of his skill, is an idiot. And I happen to know exactly how to deal with idiots."

"Okay. But if you ever need anything..."

"I'll keep you in mind."

With a last, parting wave, Goku walked out of that underground room...leaving Daimaou no Tambourine to himself. The mage waited several moments...read several lines...to be very sure that the other was gone. And then, all alone in that room, he let slip a soft, sibilant chuckle, his smirk curving up further, twisting into something truly alarming.

"That...was entirely too easy."


	15. for it's written in the sky

Night had always come to the fortress quickly. The peaks of the great mountains blocked the sun's rays long before evening would fall in happier regions, casting the dark, snow-blasted walls into their shadows.

Piccolo had taken as his position a spot on one of the towers…where he crouched like some form of gargoyle, with the pure white of his cape cascading over one shoulder, looking blue-gray in the darkening eve. It whipped and twisted like a living thing in the constant wind, as if to express its wearer's agitation.

He had not expected the silence to last so long.

Admittedly, he hadn't been sure what to expect – several massive chi blasts might have been appropriate. At the very least, someone should have come flying through a wall by now. But no, there had been nothing.

Which was making Piccolo very, very nervous.

He had warned Son Goku, before watching him go down into the forbidding corridors of that fortress. "Don't talk to him, Son," he'd growled, glaring down into the man's eyes with every ounce of stern intimidation that he could muster. "You go in there, you take your kid back, and you get out. If he says anything, you ignore it. Clear?" He STILL wasn't sure that he'd made any sort of impression on the man's rather impenetrable good nature…but at least he'd tried.

The more he thought about it, the worse an idea it seemed to have allowed the man to go down there on his own. Physically…yes, the Saiyan was a little bit stronger than he was. Maybe even a lot stronger than he was. But when it came to things like…oh, knowing when he was being conned, for example…not for the first time, Piccolo wondered how the man had even SURVIVED before he'd been around to kick his ass into survival mode.

Piccolo pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that he really hadn't had a choice. Frankly, he probably couldn't have prevented Goku from going down there if he'd tried…at least, not without making enough noise to alert anyone within five hundred miles of the place to their presence. Of course, he could always have gone with him – but if Cymbal had come back to find his little brother _and_ his worst enemy _and _the spawn of said enemy all together and friendly in what he considered _his _stronghold, there would be no avoiding a very, very nasty confrontation.

And in a small, suspicious corner of his mind, Piccolo wondered if that hadn't been exactly what Tambourine had been planning all along.

Which was why he was waiting out on the roof. Watching for certain death from either above or below. And, very slowly, going out of his mind.

"Sometime this year would be good, monkey," he growled, drumming his talons irritably on the stone.

As if on cue, a little flare of orange popped out a window, reminding Piccolo very briefly of a butterfly. A moment later, the little flare of orange had grown, and landed beside him in the form of Son Goku.

Piccolo did not stand immediately – he merely turned his head to look at the man. He was battered. That gaudy orange gi had been ripped from one shoulder to reveal the darker blue underneath; the brightness of the fabric had been dulled by dust, ash, and blood to the color of gouged clay. His skin was pale from the cold, where the cold hit it – and where it was not purpling with bruises on their way to forming. His normally-cheerful eyes were a bit dull with exhaustion, maybe even a little dazed…he reminded Piccolo of a deer he had once seen with the sun-sickness, wandering in an almost blind search for water.

But, curled safely in one arm was the sleeping figure of his son.

Piccolo raised an eyeridge as he stood, ignoring a little twinge of pain in his side as he did so. Opening a conversation, hinting…these were things that he had never learned, so he decided simply to cut to the point. "What happened," he asked, tone gruff, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing," Son answered a little dazedly.

"Nothing?" Piccolo returned, crossing his arms.

"Yeah. He just gave him to me, that's all."

"He gave him to you," Piccolo repeated incredulously.

"Yeah."

"And you didn't talk to him?"

At that, Goku looked decidedly evasive – which Piccolo had learned to interpret as an affirmative. With a frustrated growl, he said, "Son, for the love of…I TOLD you not to say a word to him! That meant NOTHING! No sound! What about that could POSSIBLY have been so…"

Looking more and more uncomfortable, Goku answered, "Aw, Pic, he didn't seem so bad. A little weird, yeah, but not so bad."

"Not so bad!" Piccolo hissed, breaking with his usual stoic stance long enough to sweep an arm irritably in the direction of that fortress. "Son, he's the devil!"

"Um, I…thought that was you," the Saiyan interjected a bit sheepishly.

Piccolo could think of no response to that but to glare – which he did with a bit more gusto than usual.

His mood was not noticeably helped when Goku grinned at him placatingly. "You know what your problem is, Pic?" he asked after a moment.

Piccolo ground his teeth together. "You want me to give you his name and address?"

"Your problem is that you just don't know how to relax. I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but every little thing sets you off. Maybe you should look into…I dunno, meditation or…"

As the Saiyan droned on, Piccolo wondered rather dismally if the two of them were ever actually having the same conversation at the same time. After a moment's deliberation, he just sighed heavily, bringing up two fingers to rub his temple. Talking with Son Goku seemed more and more often to leave him with a headache. "Let's just leave already," he interrupted tiredly.

He was rather alarmed to see Son's face light up – albeit tiredly – at that statement. "What?" he growled a little apprehensively.

"So you're coming with us?"

Piccolo just looked at him blankly. "I didn't say…"

"That's great, Pic. I mean – really."

"But I'm not…"

Grinning wider, Goku continued, "I was gonna ask you to, you know – since it's not like you can come back here ever again, and…"

"But…"

"…love living with people, I promise – once you get used to it, anyway, which…"

Feeling oddly defeated, Piccolo dropped the hand that he'd raised in protest, and just let his shoulders slump for a moment. "I give up," he growled. "Let's just GO before my brothers decide to show up and put you out of your trusting misery."

And that statement…triggered a very, very uncomfortable thought.

Cymbal should have been back hours ago.

Piccolo should have been gloating.

Every instinct that Cymbal possessed had screamed such at him. The younger demon had finally either seen directly or seen indirectly to the death of Son Goku…or at least, he had if his account was to be believed. He'd also seemingly single-handedly defeated the radical power that had been Son Goku's brother. All in the span of a single afternoon.

Wounded or not, the rightful heir of the demon king should have wanted to rub his elder brother's face in his victories very, very thoroughly.

Instead, he'd been…evasive. He'd never actually confirmed what had happened, never said for certain that Son Goku was dead. In fact, everything about him had projected, in a none-to-subtle way…that he was wanting very much for his elder brother to just go away. Quickly.

Cymbal was no psychiatrist…but he'd been around Tambourine long enough to find such behavior very suspicious indeed. "Keeping secrets, little brother?" he murmured to himself, even as the fight-winds flew by him, forcing his antennae back, and causing his dark gi to ripple around him like water before a gale. "We'll fix that."

"We'll fix it permanently."

He could see his destination approaching in the distance… and in spite of the potential danger of the situation, he couldn't fight back a rising sense of exhilaration – the wonderful patter of "rush" flooding his senses.

It was time to see whether or not Son Goku was at home.


	16. wait together for the break

In the days before Gohan had been born…before even Piccolo had been born…Daimaou no Cymbal had not been noted for his stealth. He had on more occasions than he could count come into cities or villages in a blaze of chi energy, leaving little but smoking remains in his wake. In those days, they had been conquering the world…and trying to flush out those few small, irritating, and persistent fighters who still managed to dodge them. It had been different then. The objectives had been different. The methods were different. He missed those days.

Cymbal could land quietly when he wanted to. When his father – his lord – had been alive and just beginning to reassert his strength on the world, the younger demon had often flown reconnaissance for him. He had learned, through a series of training exercises and a healthy dose of trial and error, how best to move, how best to keep to the ground. He had learned how to be silent, unnoticed. It was knowledge that he was not pleased to revisit, but he remembered it, and that was what was important.

He chose as his landing site a copse of pines well downwind of Son Goku's home, forming a straight line with his body as he fell through the grasping branches, landing in a low crouch on the soft needles with barely a rustle, one leg extended, one beneath him. He did not move immediately, but closed his eyes, tuning out the smell of pine and the rough, earthy smell of the dirt, catching instead the familiar odors of ozone and burnt wood.

_Something's happened here, _he thought, absently running the tip of his tongue over his fangs. He smirked. _That's interesting. _With one hand, he removed the crimson sash that he wore, dropping it to the ground and brushing gold-colored needles over it with the back of his hand. It would have been too noticeable. Beside it, he left his tunic with the red insignia marking him as _Daimaou_, as a demon. In a dense forest such as this, his skin and the near-black gi pants he wore would serve as far better camouflage.

He moved down the slope with uncharacteristic patience. He did not dart from cover to cover; his method was more a slow, even creep – so that even one looking right at him might not see him. It seemed an eternity was required to move from those pines to the smaller, denser Japanese maples and low bushes – and finally, to within view of Son Goku's home.

It was a home that Cymbal had watched him build in the days leading up to that tournament – days immediately following the death of his lord. He had known better to attack the monkey-tailed warrior there, at first…not out of some sense of honor, but rather because a warrior fighting on home territory that he knows well, fighting to defend what is most important to him, is far more dangerous than a warrior met on a simple field of battle.

_Never make your opponent more dangerous than he is, _his lord had said. Thus, not even after his death, when rage and grief had made Cymbal more reckless than even he had been before, was he foolish enough to throw his life away on THAT sort of battle.

Obviously, not everyone followed this line of logic. He couldn't help a pleased, low growl – almost a purr – at the sight of the great gouges in the ground left by some battle. The field that lay in front of the house was ripe with trenches, the rich brown of the earth poking through like flesh exposed through a cut. In swaths, grass had been burned black by chi…and some fallen trees, still dripping sap, lay in clear testament to flung bodies. There was even, faint underneath the other smells, the heady scent of copper and salt, still fresh.

_Blood yes, but I don't smell death, _he thought. He closed his eyes, held his breath…and heard it, the subdued sound of voices. One male, one female – the other side of the house. Two or three silent running strides put him AT the house, and one controlled leap put him on top of it, crouching low on the domed surface, pressing his palms flat against the surface to hold on. All soundless. Clean. He liked clean. To make too much noise now would be an insult to himself and to his training. He couldn't have that.

"Chichi, I'm sure he'll be back soon," said a voice – a high, trembling tenor that immediately made Cymbal want to stomp on the speaker.

The woman – Chichi? – did not answer. She was far too busy crying. He slunk a bit farther along the dome, careful…until he could see.

The woman was dark-haired, and would have looked sturdy had she not been sitting on the stoop, huddled, and apparently crying her eyes out. "My poor Gohan," she seemed to be saying over and over. "Goku…" One arm, Cymbal noticed, was in a sling. _Must be the monkey's woman, _he thought. For a moment, he contemplated blasting her just to spite his longtime enemy…but no, not yet, not until he was dead. He turned his eyes to her companion.

The man….thing….he recognized more readily. He felt his lips curl up further, revealing a white line of fangs. _Well, whattaya know…the little shit isn't dead yet. Trust it to Tambourine to fuck something like that up…_

Right at that moment, the monk looked as if he WISHED very much to be dead. He shifted and fidgeted uncomfortably, his face flushed with the awkwardness of what he was trying to do. "Goku knows what he's doing, Chichi…he and Gohan'll be fine, you'll see."

"How can you say that," she asked, wiping a hand furiously across her eyes as if to clear away tears by means of sheer violence. "You saw him leave with that…monster…and that THING that took my Gohan, I…" she became incoherent again, sobbing all the harder.

Cymbal rocked back a bit…digesting this. Slowly, an idea was beginning to form…now the question was…which one. He looked between them. The monk was very small, probably easily subdued, but he couldn't imagine that the annoying little baldie could be as valuable to the monkey as his wife. Then again, being around a woman in hysterics for even as long as this was beginning to annoy him. He certainly didn't want to be dragging her all over creation kicking and screaming and sobbing like some sort of dying cow. It'd be downright unbefitting a warrior.

_The runt it is, _he thought, a rare grin sliding across his features. It had been entirely too long since he'd actually gotten to HIT anything.

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Krillen would not have been able to say how it happened. One moment, he was doing his level best to comfort his best friend's wife…although admittedly, his best was fairly pathetic…and then the next, he was staring up…and up…and up at a very familiar face, one that he'd occasionally had nightmares about. His eyes went wide as he took in the familiar, upswept scars on the jaw, a pair of them, perfectly parallel and stopping just below the crimson eyes. The distinctive fangs that were showing more than he would have liked… "Cymbal," he said, entirely unnecessarily, cringing internally when he heard himself stutter.

"Yo," Cymbal said, rough tone alarmingly cheerful. Then he punted him like a football.

Krillen felt his body assume a C-shape at the initial blow. He tried desperately to uncurl himself and gain control of his trajectory – he almost had it before he slammed into an oak tree. The air left his body in a woosh as his back curled around it. He slid down, shaking his head, wondering how he could possibly be feeling woozy already…_Damn it! He only hit me once…_And then, of course, there was the gut-wrenching thought: _Oh no, Chichi! What if he's after her?_

The small human scrambled to his feet, hoping to get back to the yard before anything could happen, but he didn't even have an opportunity to get a chi blast ready before he was hit again. The demon just…appeared over him, delivering a bone-jarring downward punch. Krillen sidestepped frantically, managing to miss the next, and making an effort to clip the demon on the hip with a side-kick.

Krillen succeeded, but his triumph was short-lived as he realized that the demon had not made any effort to try to avoid it. Instead, he plowed forward, throwing his superior weight into the kick – Krillen had to fall back, stepping to keep his feet under him. He leaped into the air as the demon continued to come forward, aiming a roundhouse at his chin…blinking in shock as the other pulled his head back in time to avoid…and yet again, Krillen found himself flying through the air on the wrong end of a kick. _Oh, man, this is bad…when'd he get so fast?_ Krillen thought from the air, managing to get his feet between himself and the next tree. He rebounded off it, hit the ground, felt the wind. Only a quick dive saved him from the energy blast that followed…slicing the tree he'd just left in half.

_I'm gonna die, _Krillen thought gloomily, backpedaling. _Squashed to death by a freight train of a demon. Wouldn't mom be proud. Ack! _He ducked under a knifehand, made an effort to blast the other, took a backhand across the face for his trouble. His ears rang as he sank to one knee, feeling another two or three blows land…and then a jerk as he was hauled up by the front of his gi.

Dazed, he looked down at the massive, clawed hand in the front of his uniform…following it all the way up to those eyes, pitiless, arched with definite mirth. "Too easy," Cymbal said, his smirk growing wider still.

At least…until the cast-iron frying pan bounced off his head.

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Cymbal blinked. He looked down on the grass at the now-bent kitchen utensil. Rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. _Ow, _he thought, bemusedly. _Where the Hell did THAT come from? _

"You leave him alone, you beast!" A voice – a female voice – snapped from the side of the clearing. Another pot came flying his way, which Cymbal sidestepped neatly. He turned his head to look her way, incredulously.

"Hey, do you mind?" he asked of the woman who was apparently assuming a fighting stance, a deep one…tai chi? "I'm sorta in the middle of something here."

"You leave him alone," she said. "You should be ashamed of yourself, picking on someone smaller than you are…"

"Everyone's smaller than I am."

"That's no excuse!"

Cymbal rolled his eyes. "Why don't you go do laundry or something, alright? I got no time for this…" his eyes widened as a spoon came flying his way, the stick-end pointed directly at his eyes. He swatted it aside irritably.

"Chichi!" the monk cried, still dangling from his fist. "Run! Don't make him mad!" The human began kicking frantically, trying to get down, or at the very least, distract the demon. Cymbal could have told him that he was wasting his time.

"He's nothing but a bully," the woman shouted back. "I'm certainly not going to cater to him!"

Cymbal, on the other hand, was just beginning to become really irritated…and his good mood from bashing the monk around was beginning to fade. "Will you cut that out?" he snapped as a broom came flying his way. He deflected it with a forearm; it snapped in two as it flew by him.

"When you put him down!" she said.

Cymbal looked at her…and looked at the monk dangling in his hand. He grinned. "Sure," he said…and dashed the small human's body against a nearby tree. Hard. He dropped the limp…but still breathing…form to the ground. "Happy now?"

By means of answer, the woman shrieked at him, launching herself across the clearing, good fist pulled back. "Guess not," the demon quipped, sidestepping her attack at the last possible moment, letting her shoot past him.

"Monster!" she shouted, aiming a kick or two at his face. "Beast! Go back where you came from!"

Cymbal rolled his eyes. "Like that's gonna work," he said. "Look. You're hilarious, I'll give you that…but there's not a damn thing you can do here. I want to take him, I'll take him…I want to kill him, I'll kill him. That's it."

The woman ignored him, taking a shot at his knee…which he tucked his legs under himself in time to avoid. "You wanna die, too?" he asked sourly. Then, much to his surprise, a kick actually connected, dead to his ribs. It didn't hurt much, but it DID surprise him enough that he took a step back.

"I'm not afraid of you," she snapped. Again, her fist flew at his face. This time, he caught it easily with one of his own, powerful fingers curling around her wrist. He was startled at how small it was – which was often true of his interaction with humans. A simple squeeze would snap it. He was careful not to squeeze…yet.

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Chichi stared for a moment at her hand, looking particularly small and breakable in his, in pure shock. She pulled hard, twisting it in a technique that she had used before to get out of similar grips. His hand didn't so much as twitch, tensing around hers until it felt like steel. Her next effort was to pull her other arm from the sling and attempt to jab him in the eyes with that one, hand flat, nails extended. He caught it with equal ease.

Glaring at him, she next made an effort to kick him squarely in the groin…which he blocked with a knee. She leaned back, pulling hard…but immediately felt the pain in her shoulder and stopped, trying to catch her breath.

"Done?" the demon asked, smirking, leaning down a little. "I got nothin' but time." She headbutted him, the top of her head impacting his chin. It hurt her, and it shouldn't have. She shook her head dazedly, tried not to fall. _What do I do now? _She thought, looking up at him from under her hair, which was beginning to come a little loose around her face. She couldn't help but notice the scars across his torso, deep ones from claws, the size of him – he must easily have outweighed her by 150 pounds…and further up, at his face. He looked surprised, as if still trying to get over the fact that she'd headbutted him…but he didn't seem dazed. Just…irritated. Very irritated, and maybe as if he wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of THAT effort. "Now." He said, voice low and growling. "What am I going to do with you?"

It suddenly occurred to Chichi that she might be in very serious trouble. "Let me go," she snapped, aiming another kick at him. "That'd be a start!"

Cymbal smirked. "And let you hit me some more. Sure, that seems like a great idea." He did release one arm – her bad one – but only so he could step to the side and twist her good arm, moving around behind her. Her eyes widened, and she tried to bolt – but his grip was steely, and she couldn't break it. "Maybe I should take YOU with me," he said, sounding amused…though in a decidedly less-than-altruistic way. "You'd be more interesting than midget-boy over there. Louder, too."

"I am NOT going ANYWHERE with YOU!"

By way of answer, the demon twisted her arm JUST a bit more. Her vision blurred briefly with the pain of it, and she shook her head, inadvertently slapping one of her side locks across his face. "You ever just do as you're told?" he asked sourly.

She stomped on his foot as hard as she could…and was disconcerted to hear the demon actually laugh. She gasped as she felt his arm go around her waist, picking her up off the ground easily – it felt like being in the coils of some constricting snake, warm and thick and unbreakable. "I've decided," he said. Chichi suddenly remembered every story she'd ever seen on the news about women left alone and met with some attacker. She began struggling frantically, trying to kick at him, trying to do anything…

And, without prelude, she found herself flung onto her own kitchen floor. She landed ungracefully, sliding along the wooden floor to land half under the table. Twisting so that she was sitting up, she scrabbled backward, looking up at the demon in shock.

Cymbal was lounging in the doorway, leaning with one arm on the jamb…looking highly entertained. The light from outside caught him down one side, outlining old scars and new ones, the marks of a long history of harsher battles than she could ever give him. With morbid fascination, she realized that his eyes actually GLOWED…

The demon smirked still wider. "Scared yet?" he asked.

She lay hand to another unidentified pot and hurled it at him. He caught it as easily as the others. And laughed again. "I could kill you," he said with a fanged grin. "I could break you. But then, I almost think I'd be doing the monkey a favor." He offered her a two-fingered wave. "Ciao."

He disappeared from her doorway. By the time she got outside again, both the demon and Krillen were gone. She looked around, turning circles frantically, unable to believe that it had happened again, in such a short time – that someone else had been taken. Finally, exhausted and feeling sick, she dropped to her knees, hands limp in lap, staring up at the sky. "Goku," she said. "Goku where are you?" tears brimmed over her eyes, poured down her cheeks. "Where are you when I need you?"

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"Something's not right," Goku said, his voice unusually quiet, serious.

Piccolo looked over at him, noting idly that he'd never really seen his companion looking THAT rough around the edges. Granted, they'd had a long day, but the human…er…Saiyan…MONKEY looked terrible. His eyes were purple around the edges from too little sleep, his body was battered from so many fights in so little time. Even his aura was dimmer than it should have been; it seemed dusty and tired as it flickered around him. The one thing that remained strong was his grip around his sleeping child ,who was curled into the scorched, muddied top of Son's gi.

"Something's always wrong," the demon grumbled. "It can wait until tomorrow."

Goku shook his head. "No," he said, "something's REALLY wrong…let's go faster, hai?"

Piccolo rolled his eyes. "If you burn yourself out, I'm not carrying you."

Goku seemed not to notice his words at all, merely doubled his speed.

The demon shrugged, redoubling his own speed – noticing something odd as he did so. He was not so strong as Son Goku, but from the looks of it, he could heal from great harm much faster. After all, while his partner was obviously dragging, Piccolo was beginning to feel normal again. Tired, but normal. _Good to know, _he thought.

Still, he didn't have too much time to dedicate to that line of thinking – he was far too preoccupied with what had happened to his eldest brother. It wasn't like Cymbal to be gone that long, and frankly, it was making Piccolo nervous. _I just wish I knew…_he blinked, cutting off that thought, when he smelled ozone. Fresher than it should have been. And close. _Ah, Hell. _

Goku smelled it a moment later. His tail bristled, even as his eyes narrowed, and he flew all the faster. Piccolo was able to catch up, but he didn't pass him…he let the other take point. He didn't know what they would find there, but he knew that he wanted nothing LESS than to be between Son Goku and whatever else had harmed his family.

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It did not take Son long to find his wife. She was kneeling in the middle of the yard like a beacon, head in her hands, rocking slightly. He landed a few feet away, stumbling more than a little, managing to kneel in front of her. "Chichi?" He asked. "Chichi-san, what happened?"

The woman did not answer. She merely curled closer to herself. "Chichi," he said, gently. "I brought Gohan back, see? He's okay. Just sleeping. He's okay, Chichi…please don't cry."

Piccolo landed a few yards away, keeping well back of this little family scene. He felt horribly awkward in watching it, and he would not have stayed save out of some misplaced sense that he needed to be there.

Chichi, meanwhile, looked up at her husband, then down at her son. She smiled, weakly, taking the boy to herself…then looked up at Goku, obviously trying to collect herself. Accidentally, though, she looked past him, caught sight of Piccolo. Her eyes widened, and the blood drained to her face. She put a hand to her mouth, curling it slightly.

Goku blinked, looking back over his shoulder, then to Chichi. "Chichi-san," he said, drawing the name out. "It's okay. That's only Piccolo – he won't hurt you any. He helped me get Gohan back."

"You look like your brother," she said to Piccolo in a hushed voice. "A lot like him. Has anyone ever told you that? You do. Must be family resemblance. You could be his twin. Except for the eyes, of course, but then we'd never tell you apart." She laughed nervously.

Piccolo noticed that it was very, very disturbing to see _this_ woman near hysterics. Then, he blinked. His brother?

"What is it?" Goku was asking in the meantime. "What happened…Chichi, what's wrong?"

"Goku," she said, voice shaky, eyes still on Piccolo – looking at him the way almost every human that he'd ever met had. "There's something I have to tell you. About Krillen."

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"Did you ever hear that old wive's tale about how to catch a dragon?" Daimao no Cymbal asked conversationally as he reversed his grip on a knife and drove it into one of the monk's feet, pinning him to the ground. Bone crunched audibly as the blade sank fully in, wedging its serrated edges between two rocks.

Krillen cried out, half-doubling over, giving up on his efforts to crawl away. "Drop dead, you freak," he choked. Blood flecked his lips.

Cymbal ignored him entirely…continuing on as he stood up, slipping that tunic back on. "The best way, of course, is to get a bigger, stronger dragon to do it for you, but I don't have one of those." He picked up the sash next, that he had brought with him…taking great care to tie it as ritual would prescribe. "The next best thing, though, is you get a nice little goat, and you rough it up a little so it'll make some noise. Then, you take this goat…" here, he inserted an absent kick to Krillen's ribs… "and you stake it to the ground where the dragon can find it. After that, you wait."

"Coward," Krillen spat at him. "You afraid to face him in the open? Afraid he'll beat you again?"

Cymbal chuckled. "A win's a win – doesn't matter how you come by it. You good guys should look that up sometime. It'd save you a lot of grief."

Krillen let his head fall back against the grass. "He'll still kick your ass," he said. "He always does."

"S'a first time for everything, runt," Cymbal answered, flexing his talons.

"I'll yell to him," Krillen threatened. "I'll tell him not to come."

"You do that," Cymbal answered with a shrug, "and I'll leave from right here, go back and see his wife. By the time he gets turned around, there'll be no saving her."

Krillen bit his lip.

"You'll keep quiet," Cymbal said, offering the bleeding monk a smirk.

Krillen nodded.

"Thought you'd see it my way," Cymbal said, making his way to the boulders beside the small, open place where Krillen would lie. "Now…why don't you try to act hurt…or I'll give you some better motivation."

Krillen lay fully back, eyes clenched…wishing, just once, he could manage to spare his friend this kind of thing…wishing he were strong enough.

He winced when he heard the demon sharpening his claws on a nearby rock. "Stay away, Goku," he thought. "Please."

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"You're insane," Piccolo snapped. "You're fucking insane!"

Goku closed the door to his house, turning to Piccolo. "C'mon, Pic, if it were you out there…"

"You'd STILL be insane," the demon snapped, crossing his arms. "You're in no condition to go out there and fight again – and neither am I."

Goku turned big, worried eyes to Piccolo. "But Pic…I can't just leave him out there. Not after all we've been through. He needs me."

"YOU need you," Piccolo growled.

Son blinked. "What?" he asked.

Piccolo huffed, turning his back on him, arms still crossed. "Forget it. Just don't come whining to me when Cymbal rips your heart out and stomps on it."

"S'okay, Pic," Goku said, walking to the yard where he could take off. "I understand."

"I'm not coming with you," Piccolo snapped. "S'a damn stupid idea, and if you insist on going, you go by yourself."

Goku offered him a slight smile. "I know. I understand. I'll be back soon, Pic"

The demon looked over his shoulder, one eyeridge raised incredulously. "You're still going to do this?"

"I told you. I can't just not go. He needs me."

"You're hopeless."

Goku grinned. "I've heard that before. Look, Pic…keep an eye on them while I'm gone, hai? This might take a little while." He bent his knees, and he was gone.

Piccolo growled under his breath, started to turn to walk back toward that house…paused. Tilted his head back. Glared at the sky. "FINE, damnit," he snapped at last, turning on his heel, and taking off after his rather unfortunate partner. After all…someone had to do damage control.

"Should just let you die, you tailed pain in my ass," he muttered…even as he redoubled his speed. "It'd serve you right." Though that statement didn't stop him from racing through the sky in an effort to catch up with him.

Besides…anything was better than sitting outside that house, hearing that woman cry over her son. She was not wailing, no – that would have been better than the silent, steady sobs that she had fallen into. He could not help but wonder what had happened.

And he wondered what had EVER possessed Cymbal to let her live to tell her husband whatever had happened.


	17. remember how it feels

Author's Note - sorry for all the shoddy formatting that's been going on lately with my stories. eats any breaks that I put into these stories with remarkable regularity. I've done what I can, but it still looks pretty rough - it won't allow lines, asterisks, or anything else that I'm plugging in here.

break

It might only have been an hour, Krillen would realize later.

Really, even counting the fight, even counting the time that it had taken Cymbal to fly him out to that patch of land, even counting their brief conversation, and even counting the time it had taken to have that dagger driven through his foot, it probably couldn't have been longer than an hour and a half. Maybe two hours. Maybe.

It felt like an eternity. The small monk struggled every moment of it to keep conscious in spite of the warm, brown fuzz that threatened to wrap around him. He distracted himself by noticing things – the way the air smelled like rain, the coldness of the grass…the feeling of blood, tickly and annoying beneath his gi pants, an itch he couldn't reach. He noticed the way the rain felt when it first started to hit him in cold spikes. He would have tried to crawl away – he'd already determined that he could not reach the dagger – but he didn't know how closely Cymbal was watching him, and he didn't dare make him angry enough to go after Chichi again.

Mostly, though, he prayed to anyone who would listen that Goku would be careful. Better yet, that he wouldn't come to save him at all. Kami was supposed to be an old friend, after all. Surely he could talk him into at least one favor – especially given that it was sort of a family thing to start with.

His hopes of that vanished when he felt the energy, saw the bright orange at the side of his vision. Krillen turned his head, squinting through the now-falling rain at Goku – and his heart sank right down into the ground.

Goku had come alone. And he didn't even really look like Goku. Sure, he had the same crazy hair, the same tail, the same clothing – battered now, and torn. But the man was tired. He limped. His eyes were narrowed in determination, not to fight, but to keep moving. Krillen saw those eyes soften slightly, though, when they met his, saw that relieved grin…

Krillen's eyes burned. _Go away,_ he thought, _please – go!_

The monkey-tailed warrior limped closer. Krillen had entertained some wild idea of yelling out to him just as he got close, so that he and Cymbal would take off at the same time, and Goku could maybe beat the other warrior back to his home…but the monk could see that this would fail, now. As beaten up as Son Goku was, he'd never even be able to keep Cymbal in sight in a flat-out race, much less catch him… "It's a trap," he mouthed. But he didn't know whether or not Goku would be able to see it through the rain.

Goku seemed not to notice…came closer…closer…started to kneel. _RUN! _Krillen shrieked in his mind. But of course, it was already too late. He saw a blur of black and purple, and he could do nothing but flinch at the wet, bruising sound of collision.

Cymbal hadn't used an energy blast, Krillen realized. Goku might have sensed that. Instead, the demon chose to plow into him from behind, close with him, use his superior weight, his claws…the two of them veered off crazily, moving through the clearing with Goku trying to get space, and Cymbal apparently unwilling to let him.

Krillen twisted frantically, trying to reach that dagger – but it had been driven in the arch of his foot from behind, and from nearly facedown…the monk couldn't get a grip on it, and when he did touch it…it was so slick with blood and rain that he couldn't move it.

What he would have done anyway was beyond him.

break

Truthfully, Son Goku had been expecting some kind of attack at first. That was before he'd seen Krillen, stretched out and apparently dead in a clearing. Son had thought it a message – a sign that Cymbal had left him, something to mess with his head. It wasn't the first time that a Daimaou had done something like that. Bulma had called it psychological warfare. To him, it was simply 'wrong.'

He landed carefully – his balance wasn't up to its usual par – and began his slow walk to where the smaller man was stretched out. He was glad to see that Krillen was alive, and even conscious. He had been expecting much, much worse. Maybe this was a good sign, a sign that Cymbal, like Piccolo, wasn't _quite _as bad as he could be.

Goku couldn't help but notice that Krillen was shaking, hard – was looking at him with wide, fixed, horrified eyes. His lips might even have been moving, but Goku's eyes would not focus enough to see them. He smiled a little, hoping to reassure his smaller friend. He would have said something if he weren't so…

Son had a flash of something – wrong. It wasn't a long flash, not long enough to be a premonition or even an instinct. It was just a sudden prickling of the hairs on his tail, a sensation like that of an impending static shock. If he had been in better shape, it would have been enough for him to get airborne and avoid the first strike entirely. All he had time to do at that particular moment was brace himself, bend his knees, and attempt to sidestep whatever-it-was.

In one respect, it worked – as the full force of whatever-it-was didn't immediately bear him to the ground. Still, the force on his back in passing was bruising, and he felt something deep and hooked tear into the flesh of his shoulder and back through his gi.

_Claws, _he thought, suppressing the predator-and-prey response that threatened to surface. He spun as best he could and threw a sidekick directly into his attacker's ribs, and was disconcerted when the thing stayed right on top of him, in spite of the heavy gasp that came out at the force of his blow.

Goku knew who it was, then. He kicked him again, harder, threw a flat-palmed strike at his face, pushed back. He felt the claws come free with a sound like bread being torn as they furrowed down his arm and around his side. The gashes they left weren't life-threatening, but they were long and deep – they would bleed freely, sting in rain and mud, stiffen his muscles. Which was probably exactly what Cymbal wanted.

He didn't even see the chi blast – it came in low and fast, propelled into his side by a body-shot punch. His right half burned, he had rain in his eyes, he couldn't see. Instinctively, he turned as he stepped back, throwing a crescent kick at the demon, who still seemed unwilling to back up, to let him have enough space to think.

Goku felt nothing but air when he kicked, and without putting his foot down, he lashed out to the side. That time, he felt the kick land, but only glancingly – not like he felt the other's foot implanting firmly in his back, not like he felt the ground when he slammed into it. Not like he felt the small stones in the mud cut his hands, or his back when he rolled to avoid the stomping foot he knew would come, and it did.

It got confusing after that. The rain was steady, the ground slick, the air…thick, impossible to see through. He gave up on thinking, concentrating only on his breathing, the steady in-out, on finding his opponent. Goku thought that it was interesting that, as it went on, he could HEAR the two of them connecting, but he couldn't really feel it anymore. Not when he struck the demon, not when the demon struck him. And the blows were coming so fast, by then, that they were almost blending together, like the sound of distant rain, or thunder….hey, is that lightning?...

No, it wasn't lightning – it was a chi blast. Goku blinked as the form in front of him literally disappeared, like a ball after it's hit with a baseball bat, and you have to turn your head to find it again. He did, swaying numbly, wondering when his legs had decided to stop working. He watched in mute disbelief as Cymbal handspringed out of the attack, his hands skidding along the muddy ground before he snapped his legs down, driving his feet into the mud like a pair of springs and launching himself directly at whatever had fired at him -

_Piccolo, _Goku thought, mildly surprised when he realized that his (former?) rival was hovering in the air above them both, arms held rigid in a defensive posture, eyes betraying how shocked he was at his own actions. _I didn't think you were coming…_

But he had. And he probably needed help. Goku watched, transfixed, as the two of them closed on one another, realizing that if he let them, they'd rip each other apart. He couldn't let that happen. He had to do something. Son bent his knees, eyes fastened on the two warriors, hoping he still had the strength to fight.

It was then that fate decided to blindside him. Fate in the form of a break in the cloud-cover that spilled slim, milky rays down over the two fighters in the sky – causing Son's eyes to widen and dilate with the brightness of it. They grew great and glossy, transfixed, darkening like a cat's pupils, fascinated by the whiteness of it.

His eyes drank it in, drowned in it, glowed with it until they too were small moons – and in his throat was a sound like the ending of worlds.

break

Piccolo experienced a moment's limbo when he saw his elder brother flying toward him, the red glow of his chi all the more apparent in the rain – it gave it ambience, lit that part of the sky like a bonfire – not like his own chi, a pale blue now, for some reason.

Some part of him had expected it to go differently. Some part of him had expected the other to snarl at his presence, snap out some warning of upcoming destruction, and fly off. That part had been wrong.

He lashed out with a roundhouse that Cymbal dodged neatly. Cymbal returned with a chi blast that Piccolo had been expecting. The two of them circled each other after that, a breath, two. _I'm crazy, _Piccolo thought, _I have to be – what am I doing? _

It didn't matter, he realized – as Cymbal moved to close, and he moved to meet him. It was too late to second-guess himself. It was too late.

They came together like a bird and a windshield.

Piccolo had sparred with Cymbal before. He knew his style, he knew his maneuvers – he knew them all as well as Cymbal knew his. He had beaten him more than once. He had even, on more than one occasion, fought Cymbal, Drum, and Piano all together as a sort of training exercise. He had beaten them that way more times than he could count. Of the two of them, he was the stronger. He knew that. This – should have been easier.

It took him a moment to realize why he was coming out of the exchange worse – why nothing he did seemed to matter. He could see his brother's eyes in the rain, pupil-less and glowing with an eerie focus. Piccolo had always been too controlled to let himself slip into the kind of berserker state that his brother seemed to have entered. Cymbal, he realized, was half-mad with it – he wasn't feeling the rain, the blood, the blows. Piccolo half-wondered if he even knew who he was fighting, or if, in his brother's mind, all comers wore orange uniforms and had monkey tails…

Piccolo grabbed the other by the shoulders abruptly and pushed him, hitting him on the way out with a spinning kick. He felt ribs crack under his foot. It made no difference save that, when his brother came forward again, his bared teeth were streaked with his own blood. And yet, it was not a mad charge, nothing like that – as the other sidestepped the feint, seeking another opportunity to close.

_I have to kill him, _Piccolo realized. _There's no other way to stop him now_. This, he realized, was going to be much easier said than done. Piccolo wondered if he could be optimistic enough to think that Son Goku would have had enough sense to get the Hell out of the way. He wondered what was wrong with him, that he would think of that in the middle of a fight that had a very great potential to kill him.

A fist impacted his face, forcing him to focus on the task at hand. Killing his brother. He spun with him in the sky, pushed away from him – and had the strangest sensation that something _big_ was about to happen.

Cymbal apparently thought so, too – because Piccolo saw his eyes widen dramatically, and he saw the older demon twist in the air like a cat does, when it falls. Even so, it wasn't quite enough as something that looked suspiciously like a chi buzz-saw flew by him, cutting deeply into his side on the way through. Piccolo had just enough time to twist out of its way himself – and felt something wet splatter his cheek that was not rain. It was so hot that it burned. _What the Hell was that, _he wondered, watching the chi…thing…continue on its trajectory, spinning crazily, sawing a few trees as it flew out of sight. They fell neatly, clean-edged like logs from a lumber mill.

Piccolo wheeled in the air to face his brother, prepared for another attack – only to find that the madness seemed to have gone out of the other. Cymbal was hovering, a hand clamped over his side in an ineffectual, automatic effort to stem the bleeding. Already, blood was pouring down his side, steaming in the cool air, spurting rhythmically. His gaze was not on Piccolo, but somewhere on the ground. "That little bastard," he said, an odd grin curling his lips. He sounded at once furious and faintly admiring. "That little shit-faced, snivelling bastard."

Cymbal raised a hand as if to blow the offending, bald-headed human off the face of the earth – and froze. Piccolo had enough time to realize that this was unusual. Cymbal, whatever his many, many faults were, did not count panic among them. He never froze. Hardly ever even hesitated. In fact, if anything, he was too brash, too incautious…

It was then that everything went terribly, terribly wrong. A roar such as Piccolo had never heard shook the sky, sending him back several feet. His head rang as if with church bells.

"What in the HELL," he growled. "What NOW!"

He hadn't been expecting an answer – but he got one, anyway. A head reared up out of the forest, coming to level with him. Piccolo found himself staring down the long snout of something that was a little bit like a monkey – and yet nothing like anything of earth, not just in size. The muzzle was too long, too savage, fit to hold rows of jagged teeth, bare to avoid getting caught in gore at the crunching of meat. The eyes, set far back to avoid gouging claws, were milk-white and wild. The beast grinned at him ferally – as a cat might a mouse.

_So, _Piccolo thought sourly. _THIS is how I'm going to die. _

"Piccolo!" a vaguely familiar voice – the midget human's, wasn't it? – bellowed. "Get out of his way!"

The onetime demon needed no further encouragement – he shot straight up in the air. It was almost not enough as the monster's jaws opened wide, uncontrolled chi flooding between car-length fangs as the creature vomited out an energy blast fit to demolish the better part of a continent. The shock-waves nearly capsized Piccolo in the air – only a very tight control on his own chi kept him from spiraling off or…worse…being sucked into the path of the beam.

"I refuse to accept this," he hissed under his breath. "Where the Hell did it come from? This thing CAN'T have been on earth, I would have seen it before…" After all, he thought crazily, where do you hide a building-sized ape with acid reflux?

The answer, unexpectedly, came from his brother…though it was not directed at him.

"It's real," Cymbal hissed. "I'm seeing it. It's real this time."

Piccolo turned his head sharply to look at Cymbal…trying, at the same time, to keep an eye on the monkey, which seemed temporarily preoccupied with stomping the ground and roaring wordlessly at the moon.

To say that the elder demon looked bad was an understatement. He was barely emerald, just left of lime – face and skin unnaturally pale from the blood that continued to pour more or less unchecked from his side. Still, his eyes were fixed on the thing – and his lips, purple with his own blood, were pulled into a manic grin. "Monkey's a monkey, right? What else would he be. Unless I'm making it up. Could be that, too."

_He's seen this before! _Piccolo realized, latching onto the only thing around him that made any kind of sense. But if Cymbal had seen it before, then why couldn't he remember…why didn't any of his sire's memories warn him about mile-high monkeys?

But that phrase…_mile-high…_and Cymbal, looking like that…

Could THIS be the transformation that Tambourine had mentioned once, as an aside…so long ago? The warning attached to, "oh, by the way – I wouldn't harass him after dark if I were you?" The one that Raditzu had mentioned…the one that he'd brought up to Cymbal exactly once. The one where he'd asked about giant apes, and the other had waved his hand at him dismissively, saying that nothing like that had ever happened.

And why hadn't his sire ever seen it, if it was so real?

Then there _was _a memory. And it hit him like a bucket of cold water to the face.

break

_"Do you mean to tell me," Daimaou no Pikiro growled slowly, "That a human – no, not a human. A LITTLE BOY, Cymbal – was too much for you?"_

_Cymbal was standing before him…slightly red-tinged, as seen through his sire's eyes. He looked as if he'd been through some sort of war. He was swaying, in fact, barely keeping his feet at all – probably concussed. Blood still trickled from a conspicuous, purpling wound on his temple._

_"And the only excuse that you can offer," Daimaou continued, impatience tainting the memory like salt in water, "is that when he saw you, he changed into a mile-high monkey with chi abilities." _

_"Sire," Cymbal said. He spoke slowly, voice slurring heavily, eyes slightly unfocused. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's what I saw." _

_"So tell me, Cymbal…if he had this sort of ability, then why didn't he use it to save his teacher? Or perhaps the runt-friend he ran around with. For that matter, why didn't he use it to prevent me from using the dragonballs to wish myself young again? Don't you think that would have made sense?" _

_He was using a tone that meant danger, and Cymbal knew it. The younger demon averted his eyes. "I don't know why, sire. I…it doesn't make sense. You're right. But it's what happened…" he faltered slightly, brow creasing…fingertips lightly coming to his temple.. "Or - what I think happened." _

_Daimaou leaned back on his heels, digesting this – feeling the frustration twist in his gut, a slow ember. Finally, he turned to Tambourine, who had gone with him. In the past, his youngest son had not proven the most honest of the lot – but he also had a vested interest in staying alive, and corroborating Cymbals story, if it were untrue, would not be conducive to that at all. _

_"Tambourine," he had said in his calm voice, "Is this true?" _

_Tambourine had looked at Cymbal for just a moment – Daimaou caught a flash of something in his eyes that was almost sympathy, as if he wanted to agree with him, say that was what had happened. However, after a moment, Tambourine dropped his eyes. "He…hit his head very hard, sire," he admitted finally in a soft voice. "He would not lie to you willingly, but…"_

_"Enough," Daimaou growled, annoyed. "I've heard enough. I'll deal with this myself." _

_Cymbal looked up at that, back in the here-and-now, eyes widening uncharacteristically. "Don't do it, sire," he said. "Let us try again."_

_"I have no more time for mistakes," he said, beginning his walk toward the battlements._

_"Sire, there's something not right about that kid," Cymbal pressed. "I don't know what it is, but he can't **possibly** be human." A touch more urgently, "He's dangerous."_

_"More dangerous than you, apparently." _

_"But sire…" _

_"No buts, Cymbal. Now come, all of you. I'll show you how it's done. _

break

Piccolo was forcibly brought out of his reverie by an ominous crunch – the familiar sound of bone snapping. He turned his head in time to see Cymbal fly back-first through a tree.

"DAMN it," he growled, realizing that his brother was possibly the only person around who might know how to stop the…thing. And they _would_ have to stop it. Even now, the thing was tearing great gashes in the surface of the planet, leaving them like open wounds. Piccolo had the eerie suspicion that it could very well rip the very world apart, and might just be mindless enough to do it. He reversed himself in the air – fortunately, as it turned out, for he barely avoided a clawed swipe – and dove after his brother.

He wasn't all that hard to find. The elder demon was in the process of extricating himself from a trench, movements sharp, businesslike, disconnected. Piccolo did not land, but pulled up in front of him, hovering. "Alright," he said. "You've seen this thing before. How do we stop it?"

Cymbal laughed outright, flashing moonlit fangs at him as a wolf would. Piccolo was more than a little alarmed to see how glazed his eyes were. "You believe me now?" he asked, a grin in his voice. "Hell, even I don't believe me…"

Piccolo realized that his brother had no idea who he was talking to – that he might very well be eight or nine years in the past, speaking to his lord. _Oh well, maybe he'll be more COOPERATIVE when he's delirious, _Piccolo thought, glancing over his shoulder at the monkey, who was in the process of turning a fair swath of forest into toothpicks. "I believe you," he growled. "Now how the Hell do we get rid of it?"

Cymbal was still grinning manically. "Imagine it away?"

Not fully knowing what prompted him, Piccolo reached out, fisting both hands in his older brother's gi top, and hauling him up so that they were standing nose to nose. "How. Did. You. Stop. It. Last. Time," he growled.

Cymbal's gaze, deep red, focused on his. Piccolo read brief confusion. "Lord," he said, "there's something wrong with your eyes."

_At the rate he's going, he's going to keel over from blood loss before I get anything out of him. _"NEVERMIND the damn eyes, how did you do it?"

Cymbal averted his gaze up and to the right…looking vaguely sheepish. "I didn't. I don't know how it happened, tell you the truth."

"What do you MEAN you don't know?"

A wry smirk curved his brother's lips. "He knocked me out. Didn't see the change-back." Abruptly, Cymbal's eyes widened. He put both hands on Piccolo's shoulders and pushed him hard enough to send him back several feet – throwing himself back in the opposite direction. A second later, a giant foot crashed down precisely where they'd just been. It was this that really convinced Piccolo that his brother was years in the past – had he known who he was dealing with, he might very well have pulled him UNDER the foot of that monkey.

Piccolo hit the ground and started rolling, continuing until he could get his feet under him and get back into the air. It was barely enough. He felt the wind of another irritated swipe from the monkey-thing, twisted in time not to have the things fangs close around him – and again found himself staring into the monkey's face. The face that was made of all things wild that roamed the world after dark. The twin moons that were his eyes, like a pair of headlights on a speeding car, catching, holding, closer…

_MOVE! _Some half-buried instinct screamed inside his brain. He complied, shaken, feeling a claw tear through the fabric in his leg, sending him spiraling back toward the earth. All efforts to right himself failed – he wound up skidding a fair distance on one side, stopping flat on his back not to far away. He lay still initially, hearing that the thing was moving in a different direction – which was good.

He was pretty sure it was going to take a few seconds for his double vision to clear, anyway.

A pair of small, rounded, bald heads with wide eyes peered down at him in unison.

"Ack!" Piccolo growled, sitting up sharply. "What the HELL is your problem!"

Krillen skittered back several feet as well – eyes growing wider still, which the demon would have thought impossible before. "Geeze, Piccolo, I was just trying to see if you were dead! I mean, um…if you were alive. I mean, I hoped you were because I sure can't stop that thing…"

"Shut up," he growled, swiping an irritated hand across his eyes – which, at least, seemed to be focusing a little.

"Shutting up," Krillen said hurriedly.

"That thing. That's the idiot, right?" Piccolo asked, relieved that he was only seeing ONE giant monkey at that moment….and only one slightly-blurry human.

"Idiot?"

"Son."

Krillen laughed nervously. "That's him, alright."

"How do we undo it?"

"I don't know," Krillen admitted after a moment. "I think it has something to do with the moon, I guess…his grandpa used to tell him never to go out after dark, or the giant monkey would get him, so…"

"Right," Piccolo growled. He cast a particularly evil glare at the monkey…thing. "Why did I want this planet again?"

Krillen opened his mouth as if to answer, but Piccolo waved it off. "Nevermind," the former demon growled, lurching his way to his feet. "I know how to fix this."

It took more effort than he wanted to launch himself into the air. Worse, it attracted the monkey's attention. The beast seemed to grin at him, moving forward with great, slow stomps like a man walking on the moon, great arms waving, body lurching.

"Faster," Piccolo thought, "move faster."

He was above the monkey's reach, though not for long. That was alright. He didn't need long. He closed his eyes, bringing two fingers to his forehead, seeking the calm that he needed. In the back of his mind, he could hear the creature coming closer, hear the great heart beating like a volcano, feel the head of it. None of that mattered. With the creatures claws mere inches from him, he let go the blast, directly through the opening in the clouds that had caused all the trouble to start in the first place. In the distance, the moon exploded like a stage light being hit with a beer bottle. The sky turned white.

The mere force of the creature's pained roar sent Piccolo end over end through the air. He was getting more than a little sick of that – but it was beyond helping. By the time he'd righted himself, the night's darkness had returned. Colored spots danced in front of his dazzled eyes for a moment or two…but they cleared before too long, and the giant monkey was gone. Utterly, completely gone.

For a moment, Piccolo allowed himself to be shocked that something had actually worked. Only then did he feel the ache in his own limbs. He was beyond tired…even continuing to fly would be a challenge he didn't want. He allowed himself to sink slowly through the air, landing heavily in the mud next to a recently-blasted crater.

"Ow," he thought when his feet finally touched the ground.

It didn't take him long to locate either the human or the Saiyan. It was the color, he decided, that goddamned ugly, eye-gouging orange. Damned impractical most of the time, except when he actually wanted to find someone wearing it. The human…Krillen, he thought vaguely, his name is Krillen…was staring at him in horror, temporary bravado gone, scooting back in the mud as if he expected him to charge that very second. Son, in contrast, was standing in the red-hued mud by the crater, skin marble-white in the moonlight, looking slightly dazed. He looked up at him and grinned, sort of vaguely.

"Hey," he said. "Changed your mind about coming, I guess." The earth-raised Saiyan put his hand behind his head, blinking owlishly. "What happened, anyway?"

Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment, and envisioned himself punting the other squarely in the face. It was a vision he indulged in for longer than he probably should have before he put it away. He had to concentrate now on walking. It was a slow process. The ground was against him, pulling his feet, making his footing unsure – but, teeth grinding audibly, he made his way over to the other, stopping perhaps a foot from him. He heard Krillen gasp, start to scramble to his feet. Piccolo ignored him.

"I'm done," he announced finally, in what he hoped was a tone that would broke NO argument. "I don't care if there's a whole army of crazed space aliens planning to take over the planet and turn us all into harem guards. I don't care if all our stupid relatives decide to get together for a family reunion and it's my turn to bring the potato salad. I don't even care," he continued, his voice growing in volume, "if your damn stupid kid's been kidnapped again! No. More. Understand?"

It did his mood no good when the other man just…well…smiled. Not grinned. Smiled. Smiled like some children do on Christmas morning. "Sure, Pic," he said. "You're right." The other man swayed slightly, words running together oddly. "S'been some day, huh?"

"If you faint, I'm not catching you," Piccolo growled.

"Sorry, Pic," Goku said. He put a hand behind his head sheepishly. "Don't think m'going to, though."

Piccolo eyed him dubiously.

"No, I mean it. M'okay," he said. Right before he fell over.

Piccolo honestly wasn't sure whether or not he would have carried through on his threat about not catching him. He was pretty sure he meant it at the time, but in the end, he didn't have a lot of choice. The older man fell against him, and he had no option but to curl his arms around him. The weight, though, that was a problem…he houffed in annoyance as he lost his footing, landing flat on his ass in the mud, the other half-sprawled on top of him.

There was, the former demon decided, absolutely no justice in the universe. "Damn it," he said.

Only then did he notice all the blood. More of it than there should have been. A lot more. And Son just wasn't as warm as he usually was. He was limp, too, like a dishrag, breaths soft and almost impossible to feel…

Piccolo shook him, hard. "No," he snapped. "You don't get to do this, asshole. You don't get to drag me all over the free world, ruin my damn life, and then up and DIE on me."

Goku stirred a little. "Mmph" he said. "M'not dying." One eye opened, blearily – not so colorful as usual, closer to black. Piccolo noticed, with eerie, clinical detachment, that the corneas were fogging. "Thought you weren't catching me."

"I didn't, moron. You fell on me."

"Oh. Sorry." Goku grinned at him sheepishly, and Piccolo gave real consideration to grinding his face into the mud and leaving him there. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"The only thing I was worried about was getting your blood all over me again. Smell NEVER comes out," he huffed. "Now enough of this nonsense." The Namekian growled, trying to get his legs under himself. "You're going home."

"Home sounds good," Goku agreed. "But we can't forget Krillen."

Piccolo rolled his eyes. "Define 'we'," he grumbled.

"Well, I meant you and me, of course," the Saiyan said with a wide grin.

Piccolo snorted. "There IS no 'we.' There's you, and there's me, and we're both in the same place. That doesn't make us 'we.' It just makes us…here."

Goku laughed, easing back a little…slowly, Piccolo noticed, so slowly. "I can't follow that at all," he said.

There was a moment's silence, when even the rain didn't seem to matter. There was a thin chi beam of red light from somewhere in the forest…there was the rushing sound of someone taking off. There was a widening of charcoal-colored eyes, and then Son Goku was sprawled across Piccolo's legs, staring blankly at the ground.

Piccolo didn't need to check this time. He knew that he was dead.

Son Goku was dead.

It stood to reason that someone had killed him. It stood to reason that someone had shot him in the back. It stood to reason that the someone was Cymbal, that the someone was, even at that moment, running away, and that he would never have a better chance to fight him.

It stood to reason that Son Goku's death wasn't necessarily a bad thing, that the nightmare that had been his life for the past few years could well be over now. It stood to reason that the least thing he should ever be concerned about was his dead enemy lying there like that, eyes open and fixed, still with that odd sort of smile on his face.

What did not stand to reason at all, Piccolo noted, was that he was still sitting there beside him, in the mud, in the rain, for no reason at all. What did not stand to reason was that he spoke to him twice. "Son," he said, softly. It had alarmed him to hear something approaching panic in his own voice.

When the Saiyan did not reply, did not move, he spoke again. He said the next word so quietly even he almost did not hear it… "Goku?"

It was perfectly reasonable that the other, being dead, did not answer.

It was completely illogical that he still waited for him to answer, to move, to do anything - a pain such as he had rarely felt in the back of his throat.


	18. with every breath you take

Author's note - Well, here it is – the last chapter of book one. This one gave me fits for obvious reasons. It may not be perfect, but it was time for this book to be done. I'd like to take this time to thank everyone who stuck with this story all the way through and who put up with the many, many delays. Of course, the story isn't quite done being told – you can expect to see book two sometime this fall. Thanks again, everyone.

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Daimaou no Tanbarin opened the door to his study. As always, he hung his cloak on the hat rack in the corner. As always, he started a fire with an absent gesture, hearing the flames rise up. Immediately, the room was cast in soft hues of red and orange – like a sunset, but with less actual light, warmer for its familiarity.

It was good to be home.

He eased into his chair…the one that sat before the massive, carved desk that had served him well for so many years. With a sigh – it HAD been such a mess, really, in the end – he opened the still-unfinished book. He had a bit of time to kill.

The demon made it through exactly two paragraphs before he shot the ceiling an annoyed look. With a gesture, he swept everything from that desk – all the papers, the notes, the books, the documents – and pushed back from it, the book setting on his lap.

Precisely two seconds later, a large object crashed through the ceiling. It fell like a shot duck, pieces of stone and straw drifting through the air like feathers, all to land in a rather inglorious heap on his desk. The crunch, like the sound of dead locusts under the heel of a boot, would have made most men cringe.

Tambourine was not most men. He merely pinched the bridge of his nose. "Aiming for the courtyard, were we?"

Cymbal seemed not to hear him. The massive demon had fallen at an odd angle, slightly askew on that desk, somewhere between facedown and on his side. His shoulder and chest were partway off the desk – his head a little bowed – his eyes partway open, vacant, fixed. He breathed only in high, strained gasps, blood flecking his lips, pouring in small rivlets down his face. Already, the limbs were stiffening, beginning the telltale shakes of a body entering into shock. Blood made a sheet on Tambourine's desk from the gaping wound in the other's side…sliding over the edge like a pot overflowing on the stove.

"You missed," Tambourine said as he stood, the darkness falling from him like water from the back of a dolphin.

Cymbal lifted his head with obvious effort and flashed his brother a glare worthy of the Old Testament prophets. "So…damn…sorry" he spat, a strangled quality to his voice. Spatters of blood flecked onto the desk.

Tambourine shook his head. "And I wonder at times…" he began walking over toward the fireplace, pulling a poker from its stand as he did so, "why I can never seem to get any reading done." He began heating the tip of it in the flames, waiting calmly for it to glow a bright, bright red. Once he judged it to be suitably hot, he turned on his heel, walking back to that desk.

Cymbal, he noted, was not doing so well. The older demon's head was beginning to lower, his eyes clenched with the obvious effort to retain consciousness. His skin was barely even still a shade that would constitute green.

_Well, _Tambourine thought, _No help for it. _And against that ragged wound in the other's side, he pressed the poker, hearing immediately the sound of sizzling flesh – the pop and hiss not unlike the sound that humans associate with frying bacon.

Cymbal, surprised, actually screamed – a raw sound coupled with a curling of the body, a convulsion, a shudder.

Tambourine stood impassively as he watched the other's pain – and felt it, buffeting his shields, threatening to pour into his mind. He let it. Savored it, in a way, as he had long ago learned to do. After all, when one doesn't know how to rid himself of pain, he has two logical choices. He can forgo his sanity, or he can learn to appreciate it. Tambourine had chosen the latter. He was glad now.

Tambourine hesitated a moment before breaking the loaded silence after the scream – and when he did, it was not with his usual near-whisper. It was instead in his actual voice…a voice that was nonetheless soft, but deeper, substantial. "Rest now," he said, allowing some calculated warmth to enter his tone.

Cymbal blinked, and even as he was, turned his head to look at his brother incredulously. Tambourine could easily read a brief flare of suspicion in his eyes, wariness – the look, he noted wryly, of a wild thing right before it eats from your hand.

Tambourine shook his head slightly, held up his hand in a calming gesture, palm toward the other. "It's alright," he said. "Let…me help you."

He had, he realized, never seen his brother look at him like that before – but the older demon sighed and gave up his fight to keep his head lifted. The snarl relaxed slightly, almost disappearing – remaining more as a deflection of pain than anything else. His body shivered once…so odd, that, as Tambourine had never seen the man shake before, not even in the cold of the mountains…and gave up consciousness entirely, letting it fall out of him in the form of a sigh.

Tambourine felt his lips curve up into a smooth, controlled smirk. His long, supple fingers slid up his brother's neck to rest against his temples. In this way, he entered his mind. And he knew that everything was about to change.

Which was almost regrettable. He'd sort of miss arguing with him.

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Krillen didn't really understand how it had happened. One minute, everything had been fine – well, weird, really weird – but fine. The giant monkey was gone and Cymbal was gone.

Granted, it had surprised him when Piccolo had walked right up to Goku and started yelling at him. Of course, the fact that Piccolo was giving Goku the tongue-lashing of his life was, by itself, not so unbelievable. Piccolo hardly ever talked to Goku without raising his voice or having a few veins start to pop out on his forehead. What was weird was that the demon wasn't showing any signs at all of wanting to hit his longtime enemy. Stranger still, Goku hadn't been the least surprised to have the other walk up to him and read him the full chapter and verse of the riot act without so much as a sucker punch to punctuate it. Even the demon's less-than-friendly attitude hadn't seemed to bother Goku at all; instead of tensing up or moving into a stance, the orange-clad warrior had looked more like he was trying not to laugh. It was as if Goku had _known_ somehow that Piccolo wouldn't hurt him.

Krillen's initial alarm had started to dissipate. He'd even started to think that maybe things _had_ changed between them somehow, a little. Maybe Goku wasn't so crazy. Maybe Piccolo wasn't so terrible. Maybe everything would be alright.

Nothing could have prepared Krillen for what happened next, or its aftermath. Nothing could have readied him for seeing his best friend and longtime hero lying in the mud like an abandoned sock, half-collapsed on Piccolo. Who looked like…well…

Who looked like his lifetime enemy had just dropped dead on his legs, the midget realized glumly. _Great. Now what do I do? _He couldn't very well leave Goku out there in the mud. By the same token, any image he could conjure in his head of him going up and speaking to the demon was more disastrous than the last. The small monk was sure that the demon would rip his head off….or claw him to pieces…or pick him up by the front of his gi and shake him until his teeth rattled out…

_Stop it, _he thought, pushing all of those increasingly-graphic visuals – damn his imagination anyway – to the very, very back of his mind where they belonged. He steeled himself as best he could, drawing up on legs that wanted to shake and hands that wanted to pluck at his uniform, narrowing eyes that wanted nothing more than to cry. He forced a breath out. And he walked over to Piccolo. (Well, limped was more like, but walking sounded more heroic).

Krillen hadn't really taken the time to devise what he'd do after he got to Piccolo. He figured there wasn't any use in planning – as soon as he got there, the demon would jump to his feet and start spitting out one-liners…or rip his head off or something. So there was no point making big plans until he saw how Piccolo was going to react.

With this in mind, the small monk forced himself to walk right up next to Piccolo. He tried very hard not to look at Goku at all yet. That would only make him act like an idiot.

Krillen waited for Piccolo's reaction for a few seconds. He was more than a little disappointed when nothing happened at all – he'd built himself up to be ready for some kind of spectacle. He got the feeling that Piccolo hadn't even noticed him.

He cleared his throat nervously. When nothing happened the second time, the monk cleared his throat more loudly, realizing belatedly that he sounded as if he were choking on something.

Piccolo turned his head to look at him, and Krillen realized that he'd been wrong. The demon had known he was there. He just hadn't cared. Krillen felt his stomach tie up at the way that Piccolo looked at him – his eyes were wide, as if he still couldn't believe what had just happened. _It's like he's in shock or something, _Krillen realized after a moment or two.

Hastily, the monk swallowed every word he'd been about to say about "he at least deserves a decent burial," and "he's dead already, can't you leave him alone," and "get the Hell away from him, you psycho." When he finally found his voice again, what came out was a little stuttery, and not nearly as strong as he'd planned.

"P…piccolo," he said. "We…um…it's still raining."

No answer.

"We…um…shouldn't stay here. It's…" he found a spot on the ground to stare at "raining and all."

Silence.

"Your b…um. Someone could come. And that'd be bad, you know?"

Nothing.

"Piccolo," he said at last, surprised at how soft his own voice was. "We have to take him back now."

At that, the demon nodded, beginning to unfold himself. He moved, Krillen thought, very slowly - like a man just come out of sleep. "There is no 'we'" the demon said in a hoarse, sharp voice as he lifted off the ground and flew – haltingly – toward Son Goku's home. It sounded a lot like reflex.

Biting his lip, Krillen followed.

They didn't fly very fast. This was none of the crazy, unbridled ripping through the sky that would happen after a victory. Instead, the flight back to Mt. Poazo resembled more what it was – a funeral procession. Only they had Piccolo in place of a hearse. Krillen didn't know why, exactly, but that seemed appropriate.

And Piccolo was still acting weird. It wasn't just that he didn't zip or zoom around. It wasn't just that he was so quiet. The problem was more that he seemed distant, detached – he carried the body of Son Goku as if it were a bag of something fragile, but not as if it had been close to him. It reminded Krillen of a video he had seen once of a war. A bomb hit a beach. A man fell, his arm severed. The same man stood a moment later, a dazed expression on his face. He cradled the limb to himself as if it were a child, and he kept right on staggering.

All in all, it made Krillen pretty uncomfortable. After all, what could he do with a demon who'd decided to lose his mind all of a sudden?

With such dismal thoughts in his head…those and the voice in his heart that kept gasping, over and over, _he's gone..._it was no wonder that the journey to Son Goku's house seemed to take forever. He was relieved when the two of them finally landed, even though it meant he'd have to face Chichi…

Piccolo dropped Son's body onto the yard, unceremoniously. He then crossed his arms and bowed his head – as if composing himself.

For one of the few times in his life, Krillen didn't know what to say. "We'll wish him back," he blurted at last, when he worked up the courage.

Piccolo snorted. "What makes you think I'd allow that," he said. "I just got rid of him."

Krillen was about to fire off an angry retort when he noticed that the other really didn't sound mad – just kind of like he wasn't all there. Like he was….hiding something. Krillen thought again of the way he had looked in the instant that Goku died, the way his face had changed for just a second. "Actually," he said, "I thought you might wanna help."

At that, the demon rounded on him, eyes reduced to pinpricks, fangs gleaming. "Are you out of your shiny little mind? What in the Hell is WRONG with you people! All I ever wanted was to destroy this place, and every time I turn around, someone's offering me milk and cookies! You're insane, all of you! Insane! GAH." Piccolo threw both hands into the air and turned his back on the small human.

"Um," Krillen said, cringing a little and somewhat taken aback by the whole explosion. "S…sorry. My mistake!" he said, holding both hands up in front of him placatingly. "Forget I even mentioned it. I'll just take him inside for you, okay? Right. Bye, Piccolo!"

At that, Krillen picked up his friend's body and darted into the house…though he couldn't help but notice that the demon didn't seem to be going anywhere at all.

"Man, Goku," he said. "What have you been doing while I've been gone? Didn't I tell you not to go making friends with demons?" When Goku didn't answer, he felt a lump swelling in his throat – and he could not stop it. "I wish you were here," he said to the corpse, which lay with its hair falling quietly over its eyes. "You'd know what to do."

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Gohan was not having a good night. In fact, it might just have been the worst night ever. First, he'd had a terrible dream about finding out he had an evil uncle named Raditzu, who had kidnapped him. The dream had also had a very cold place and demons, and a strange man with silver eyes. He had been glad when he'd woken up in his own bed, but he'd been very scared.

As he usually did when he was scared, Gohan went looking for his parents. His father was nowhere to be found…and when he went downstairs, he saw something that made him even more upset. His mother was sitting curled-up on the couch and crying. Dad's friend Krillen was standing beside her, looking sad and miserable. And there was something strange on the table, covered with a sheet – but for some reason, the presence of the something made him shiver, so he didn't go look at it. Instead, he ran out of the house. If his mom was crying, then he should find dad. He'd know how to make it better.

Except that his dad wasn't in the yard, either. Gohan turned around several times, looking for his father, but there was just no sign of him at all. "Dad?" he tried after a minute, but no one answered.

Still, he had a feeling he wasn't by himself. He started turning slowly, and before long, he spotted a familiar figure – leaning up against the house on the shadow-side. That figure was sitting in the air – yes, really sitting in the air – with his arms crossed and his eyes closed.

Gohan ran over to him immediately. "Mr. Piccolo!" he said. Granted, the large, green fighter made him a little nervous sometimes, but he was someone at least a little familiar, and he always seemed to know what was going on. "Man, am I glad to see you…"

The green man didn't so much as open an eye.

"Have you seen my dad?"

There was still no answer, though it seemed to Gohan that Piccolo scowled just slightly.

"Mom's really upset," Gohan babbled on, "and dad always knows how to make her feel better and stuff, except we don't know where he is, so…"

"Your father isn't coming back," the green fighter snapped finally.

Gohan was brought up short. "What do you mean? He's gotta come back, he's my dad…" the boy's eyes began to water slowly, but with growing speed, "He's just got to."

"He's dead," Piccolo all but spat.

"D…dead," Gohan stammered. "Daddy can't be dead, Mr. Piccolo, he's…"

"He is. Get over it."

The boy stared at the demon with wide eyes. He couldn't believe that Mr. Piccolo could just talk about his father like that. Especially about him being dead. Of course, Gohan didn't believe him, not really – but it was such a terrible thing to say in the first place that he felt tears welling up in his eyes. "Y-you're a liar, sir" he said.

"Good call, kid," the green warrior muttered under his breath. "But m'not lying this time. Didn't you see the body? It's on the table."

And suddenly, everything made sense. Why mom was crying. Why everything was so strange in his house, like the day after a holiday – why nothing was happening the way that it usually did. Why he'd been feeling sick ever since he woke up…Gohan felt his throat start to close up, his eyes ache, a sensation of near-bursting in his chest, like someone had punched him in the stomach and dropped him at the same time…

Mr. Piccolo whipped his head around to glare at him, and Gohan was briefly taken aback by the force of his glare. "Don't you EVEN start that," he said. "Because I'm not going to put up with…"

It was too late. Fear on top of everything else only made the dam burst sooner. Gohan's legs gave out from under him as he sat down hard, fisted his hands over his eyes, and cried.

"Stop it," Mr. Piccolo snarled, but Gohan couldn't. Trying to just made him hiccough.

"So help me, I've…" Mr. Piccolo paused, his eyes narrowing in way that made him really, really scary-looking. Those eyes, he noticed, weren't like any eyes he'd ever seen before. They weren't like his dad's or his mom's – the eyeball part was smaller, almost all black – the only things Gohan could think of to compare them to were the eyes of a snake he'd seen once…a little garden thing that had been crawling along the walkway back when everything was okay.

Mr. Piccolo didn't say anything at all, even though Gohan thought he wanted to. Instead, he looked away, toward the mountains in the distance – almost like he was expecting someone to come, or as if he'd heard something from there – and growled deep in his chest. "You're coming with me," he said abruptly.

Gohan almost stopped crying when he heard that. "Wh..what?" he gasped. "But what about…"

Piccolo gave him no time to argue. He instead picked him up by the back of his shirt, tucked him under an arm – and bent his knees. Gohan, too startled even to yell for his mom, gasped out loud at the powerful sensation of the warrior's jump into the air – it was like bouncing on a trampoline, only there was no stop to the bounce. Then the ground was spinning away beneath them like it did when his dad took him for a ride on the cloud. Only faster, and windier, and he really, really didn't want to be there. "Put me down!" he yelled, or attempted to yell. It came out more like a squeak.

"Shut up," was Piccolo's only, terse response. So Gohan did the only thing that he could, logically, do. He fainted.

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Kami-sama had been guardian of the earth for a long time. He had seen crises, had stood with his knuckles white on his staff as bombs fell on cities and as plagues tore over the land – all this for centuries before a relative peace had settled, before his dark counterpart had been released from the Mafuba jar. He had enough experience, in other words, not to get too alarmed over the planet's lesser problems. There would be droughts and famines – great accidents and greater crimes – but these things would pass. Tomorrow would come. And he would ease the passing of the planet's many horrors as best he could. Thinking in this way was the only thing that kept him relatively sane.

This was different.

Kami watched as his reborn counterpart picked up the son of Goku, tucked him under his arm, and took off with him. Watched as, leagues away, an entirely different demon lay stretched out on a desk in someone's office, gasping in soft, ragged pants that sounded to him like the sound of a sickle cutting through tall grass over and over.

Watched as, in the center of a field, a small contraption…mostly plastic, with a small, green lense, beeped unobtrusively and steadily, and heralding in those tiny sounds – sounds that could have come from any dime-store wristwatch - the doom of his beloved planet.

"Astounding, isn't it?" a familiar, wasp-soft voice asked. "How such a small stone can make such a large ripple"

Kami spun in a flare of white robe, charging a blast in his right hand. "How dare you," he asked, his voice surprisingly low for all the rage it held. "How DARE you set foot in this holy place? You of all people…"

"Well," Daimaou no Tambourine said calmly and logically as he stepped out from behind a column. "You do." The corners of his cape were still darker than the rest of it – heavy with blood, as if drying from a rain.

"I am the guardian of this planet. I am _Kami-sama_. You…"

"I - am not impressed," the younger demon responded in that same, level tone…walking toward him. He moved as if in slow motion – the cloth seeming almost to float around him. His silver eyes turned, disdainfully, toward the growing energy ball. "Put it away, old man. It wouldn't help."

"Have you come to kill me?" the old guardian asked stiffly. "I won't make it easy for you."

"I'm not here to kill you," Tambourine responded…stepping up beside him to peer over the edge of the lookout, expression vaguely thoughtful.

"Why not," Kami growled.

"You'd only be replaced. And then I'd be put to all the annoyance of analyzing _that_ one's methods and ticks. Does terrible things to my schedule, you know."

"So keeping me around is convenient for you?"

Tambourine pursed his lips just slightly – and it seemed to Kami that they curved up just slightly on one side. "The lesser of two evils. Or two goods, as the case may be."

"This is a game to you," Kami said.

"Yes – and no."

Kami bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep his temper in check. "You did something to the boy," he said. "Didn't you."

Tambourine arched an eyebrow at him and shrugged. "Being god implies a certain degree of…omniscience. Shouldn't you know?"

Kami's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't Cymbal who killed Son Goku."

Tambourine smirked just faintly. "No."

"You did it."

"Yes."

"You did it," Kami continued slowly, with a cold feeling growing inside him, "knowing that Piccolo would take the son of Goku."

"Very good."

"What did you _do_ to that boy, Tambourine?"

"Omniscience is apparently overrated," Tambourine said, templing his fingers. "I always suspected some sort of exaggeration, but…"

"I'll tell them," Kami interrupted. "about both the scouter and the boy. About how you killed…"

"No," Tambourine responded in the same tone that he'd used before. "You won't."

"I…"

"Who would you tell?" His lip twitched. "Who would you send to me, Kami-sama?"

He was right, of course. There was no one on earth – not now, anyway – who was prepared for the sorts of things that they'd encounter facing _that _particular demon. There was no one without the kinds of skeletons in the closet that could make for disaster facing someone with mental talents. There was no one with the right combination of innocence, strength, and experience – perhaps not even Son Goku, before he had died.

"And in the second…" Tambourine turned his eyes to him, clear and light as ice over a river. "In the second, direct interference is not permitted. You were allowed to get away with it before, I think – because there is a certain balance to be considered. Half of you had caused the damage – and it was your task to repair it. This, well…"

Then it hit him. It hit him like one of King Kai's fabled mallets. "You want to be the demon king."

Daimao no Tambourine actually laughed – albeit very softly. "Want to be? Kami-sama. You're going blind in your old age."

"Then you already…"

"Let's just say – that I've submitted my resume."

Kami's mouth went sandy-dry. "Why?"

"Because," Tambourine responded as he stepped back into the shadows, "even though you might not realize it yet…you need me to be. You and everyone else."

"We don't NEED more hardships," Kami called after him. "Earth has enough on her own!"

There was no real answer to Kami's voice save the soft breathings of the palm trees in the wind and the blue dancing of shadows on the marble floors. Still, it seemed to him that the air resonated with a response just the same: _wait and see. _

There was, after all, nothing else to do.

Feeling heavy and useless, Kami turned his attention back to his planet, taking stock of the situation with skills borne of a lifetime of practice.

Somewhere not-so-far-away, an orange-clad body is lying on a table. A woman was crying over it, her shoulders bent like a bird's wings to its nest.

Almost on the other side of the world, another body is lying on a table, near to death, but not yet dead. His mind, though, is sinking into a well that it might never rise from. After all, the hole was deep – and the fall had been begun years ago.

Far east of them, in the wilderness, an angry, bewildered young man and a little boy are beginning a journey. Neither of them know how it will end – or even where they're going. Kami would pray for them if he knew how

But he only knows how to watch.


End file.
